Page 51 of Monk
“Get what?”
“That this was a one-time thing. That you think you made a mistake and regret it. I understand.”
“Jacob, it’s not—”
He shakes his head. “I understand and it’s all right. I don’t blame you. You deserve better than I can ever give you anyway.”
I shake my head, my confusion getting so thick and deep, I feel like I’m drowning in it. All of that is what I’ve been thinking, of course. But hearing it coming out of Jacob’s mouth, hearing my thoughts spoken aloud, makes me realize what an asshole I am.
I open my mouth to speak and refute his points, but I can’t seem to find the words. Jacob is looking at me like he’s wanting to hear those words, hear me say that he’s wrong and that I do want him, but when I can’t get the right words out, I see the look in his eyes—a sad sense of resignation.
But then, he nods as if he isn’t expecting any less, and the emotion in his eyes is extinguished. As he looks at me, he slips that mask of cool neutrality on his face once more.
“Anyway, I should get going. I need to shower before I head out. You can see yourself out?” he asks.
He doesn’t wait for my answer, but turns around and disappears into the bathroom, shutting the door softly behind him. I want to go to him. Want to open the door and look him in the eye to tell him he’s wrong. I want to tell him that it’s not a matter of me deserving better. It’s simply a matter or not knowing what I deserve. That it’s a simple matter of everything in my life crashing down around me right now and not knowing what it is I want. Or need.
It’s such a trite, bullshit saying, but in this case, it’s genuinely true: It’s not him, it’s me.
But I will admit, the questions I have about him and his—business activities—gives me pause. Everything my dad has told me so far, along with his artful dodging, has coalesced into a cesspool of suspicion and doubt in my mind. I want to believe he will never get involved with anything like that. But the truth is, I just don’t know. He’s so different than he was back in the day, and I don’t know what he’s willing to do, or capable of doing anymore.
But I know of a way to find out. And maybe, just maybe, it will settle the questions in my own mind, leading me one way or the other.
***
It’s amazing to me that after all this time, I still know all of the back paths and shortcuts through the forest. I can still navigate my way through the woods and to the old mill practically blindfolded.
It is only a twenty-minute drive from Jacob’s place, so I beat him and whoever he’s meeting out here, by a comfortable margin. Enough time to find a good place to hide that will still give me a good view of the surroundings.
There’s a large dirt parking lot of sorts in front of the mill where I assume this meeting is going to take place. The forestry service clears the road in and out of the mill even though it’s abandoned. It serves as a fire road for them, and, as I remember, a rally point in case of a major fire. This is where they’ll establish their command post, or at least it’s what they have done in the past.
Not wanting to trap myself inside the mill, I find a thicket of bushes between a pair of giant sequoia trunks. I run down to the parking lot, which is maybe thirty yards away, and look up the gradual grade of the hill where my blind is sitting. I can’t see through the thick bushes, so I feel relatively safe. I’ll have good cover.
I head back up the hill and hunker down behind the bushes, sitting down on my butt to wait. Ten minutes go by before I hear the throaty rumble of the Harleys coming down the access road. A couple of moments later, I see four men on bikes—two guys riding side by side—one duo in front of the other with a black panel van behind them.
The small procession pulls into the lot and parks. The roar of their engines fades away and I watch as the men climb off their bikes, while two other men get out of the van. Even from where I am, I can see they all look tense. Tight. They look like they’re expecting a fight. My stomach tightens and my heart picks up the pace. The last thing I want is to get caught up in a shootout or something, so I try to make myself as small as possible.
A few minutes later, I see four men on bikes, as well as a white panel van, pull into the lot—and judging by their kuttes, they’re a different motorcycle club. The men all greet each other. It’s cordial, though not exceptionally warm or friendly.
My eyes are locked onto Jacob, and he looks especially tense and unhappy to be there. There’s some silly part of my mind that wants to believe it’s because he prefers to be rather back home in bed with me. Though I think the more likely reason is that he either doesn’t like what he’s doing, or he just doesn’t like who he’s doing this business with.
As I watch the scene in the lot below me play out, I feel a quiver of fear ripple through my stomach. As I look at the vans, I realize they may have people hidden inside. It may very well be a handoff of prisoners from one club to the next, and that they are, in fact, human traffickers.
A Mexican man approaches Jacob along with the other man he’s with. They speak in low tones and unfortunately, I can’t make out a lot of they’re saying. Wanting to hear what they’re talking about, I look around, wondering if there’s a bush closer to them that I can sneak to.
I feel a presence behind me a split second before I hear the sound of a soft footstep in the undergrowth behind me. I spin around, my heart slamming against my ribs and my eyes widening—and find myself staring into the wide, gaping barrel of a handgun that looks ten times bigger than it probably is.
The man behind the gun is tall. He’s got dusky colored skin, dark hair cut short close to the skull, and eyes that are blacker than deep space. He’s lean but fit and has arms that are taut with muscle, a broad chest, and wide shoulders. The patch on the breast of his battered leather kutte says “Bala”, right below the one that reads “Montezuma’s Warriors”. He’s got a dozen other patches, but my eyes keep drifting back to that wide, dark hole pointed at my left eye.
“Who the fuck are you?” he demands, his voice thick with a Spanish accent. “You a fuckin’ cop?”
I shake my head. “N-no. I’m not a cop. I swear it.”
He looks at me for a long moment as if he’s trying to judge the veracity of my statement. Finally, he gestures with his weapon.
“Up. On your feet,” he says.
Holding my hands up, I do as he says and get to my feet. My heart is beating a wild, staccato rhythm in my chest. Waves of fear-induced nausea wash over me, and I have to physically keep myself from vomiting.
