The Monarch Read online

  “—­pork meatballs! As if pork meatballs would be on any kind of macrobiotic diet—­excuse me—­lifestyle plan. I mean—­”

  Pork meatballs? What the hell was she talking about now? Did she even finish the last story before starting this one? Had he blacked out? Jonathan turned and looked at his house again. It was only thirty feet away, its unkempt front garden and sun-­faded siding filling him with hope instead of the usual depressing reminder of his lack of funds. Sanctuary. But more importantly, the person responsible for doing this to him was in there. Natalie would pay for this.

  I don’t know how it happened, honey. The Guitar Hero controller must have fallen off the shelf all by itself. Hard. Twice. He smiled at the idea, though he knew he would never do such a thing. His daughter’s misery wasn’t the only reason; those things cost a fortune.

  When Trudy started in on her scrapbooking hobby and her latest drama at the art supply store, Jonathan knew he had to end this.

  He abruptly leaned over and kissed Trudy, surprising even himself with the ploy. It took her a second to wind down, but eventually there was peace. Ever-­loving peace. Suddenly, Jonathan realized this was the first woman he’d kissed since Samantha. Reflexively, he shifted toward her and slipped his hand around her back. Then the past two hours came crashing through his libido and he forced himself to pull away.

  He half expected Trudy to pick up her story where she’d left off, but that didn’t happen. Her cheeks were flushed and she was panting slightly.

  “So, this was fun,” Jonathan said, unable to look her in the eye.

  “Uh-­huh” was all Trudy said. He pulled on the door’s handle and made his exit while the getting was good. When he turned to wave to her from his porch, he saw that she was still watching him and making no move to drive away. Maybe Natalie was going to pay for this, but so was he.

  He slipped inside and closed the door behind him. After a moment of leaning on the door in relief, he peeked around the curtain in the front window. She was still there and hadn’t moved.

  “Oh boy.”

  Jonathan paid the sitter and sent her out the side door. If Trudy was still out there, he didn’t want to know about it.

  “I knew you’d like her,” a voice behind him said.

  Jonathan turned to see Natalie on the stairs in her pajamas, a half-­melted ice cream bar in her hand. She was at that pivotal age when everything was still simple: Candy was good, school was bad, and boys were yucky.

  When her mother had passed away it had been hard on her, but she’d rebounded wonderfully this year. She was pretty much her old self again: funny, mischievous, and bossy. And Jonathan wouldn’t have it any other way.

  But this recent need to become his personal love doctor concerned him. Something had changed a few months ago to make her suddenly worried about the idea of her dad being alone. He had still been trying to figure out what had changed when a counselor at Natalie’s school flagged him down earlier this week.

  Natalie had been getting into fights. After bloodying the nose of a boy in her class this week, she’d finally opened up to the counselor. She’d apparently been having bad dreams—­dreams about Jonathan dying.

  “It’s completely normal in kids her age, especially after losing a parent,” the counselor had said.

  There were two recurring dreams: In the first, she saw Jonathan dying alone; in the second, she saw him with a mysterious woman, safe and alive.

  “Natalie sees what happened to her mother as a normal course of events. Her subconscious is extrapolating from that what it feels is an obvious, inevitable progression to your death. That’s the first dream. The second is a wish fulfillment. To stop what she perceives as normal, she’s injecting another parent into the situation—­someone else for death to take instead of you. A decoy, if you will.”

  The counselor had gone on, but Jonathan had heard enough. It explained the matchmaking. And as far as he was concerned, the only fact that mattered was that he was responsible for this. If he had done a proper job as a father, he would have helped Natalie deal with her mother’s death better. He’d obviously dropped the ball. And what was worse, he hadn’t even noticed.

  He still had no idea how to deal with the problem, so for now he was just trying to be more observant and not to discount any of Natalie’s thoughts and feelings. It was the reason he’d agreed to go on the date from hell.

  “Talie, I ought to brain you,” Jonathan said. “Does she talk that much in school?” He hung his coat up and kissed Natalie on the forehead. She was way too chocolaty to risk a hug.

  “Of course she does. She’s a teacher!”

  “Ha-­ha. Very funny, missy,” he said, mussing her hair before he walked into the kitchen, Natalie padding after him in her bare feet. He took a brownie out of the fridge and chomped down on the much needed carbs. “Did you finish your homework?” he asked through his own chocolaty mouthful.

  “Mostly,” Natalie said. She finished her ice cream bar, tossed the stick in the trash, and hopped up on the counter beside the sink.

  “Mostly, huh? Mostly as in you thought about doing it, or you just need a little help?”

  “So, did you kiss her?” Natalie asked conspiratorially with a big grin.

  “Natalie, answer the question.”

  “The second one. I just need your help with multiplying the stupid fractions.”

  “Oh, okay,” he said. He hated fractions but learned a long time ago that Natalie wasn’t the only one going through the sixth grade. He had to relearn whatever she happened to be studying so he could help her do her homework.

  “So, did you?” Natalie asked again.

  “Did I what?” Jonathan said innocently as he took the milk carton out of the fridge and washed down the brownie.

  “Dad! Yuck. Glass.”

  “Sorry,” he said, taking a glass down from the cupboard and pouring the milk into it. He saw that there were bits of brownie floating in it. He made a mental note to pick up milk.

  “I don’t understand how you guys couldn’t get along,” Natalie said. “I mean, she’s an artist and you’re a photographer. That’s kind of like an artist, right?”

  “Not the way I do it,” Jonathan said under his breath. He’d needed a job when he’d left his old life and since he’d typically written “photographer” on the customs forms when he was traveling back then, it seemed as good a choice as any. It didn’t take long for him to learn that pretending to be something and actually being it were two very different colored horses. He was awful at it and now they made what money they could from portrait and passport photos.

  “What?”

  “I said it’s time for bed, kiddo.” He tickled Natalie all the way upstairs and after making her brush her teeth, kissed her good night and turned off her light.

  “Dad?”

  “Yes, honey?”

  “Don’t worry. We’ll find you someone.”

  “Just get to sleep. Let me worry about me. And don’t forget we’re doing your fractions in the morning.”

  “Evil!”

  Down in the kitchen, Jonathan poured himself a scotch and wandered into the living room to enjoy some solitude. He loved his life with Natalie, but there was something about the night, when it was dark and the house was quiet, knowing Natalie was safe in her bed. After a while he turned on some quiet Etta James and looked at some photos he’d taken of Samantha and Natalie a few months before they’d found out she was sick. Samantha had known all along but had kept it to herself.

  Jonathan had first met and fallen for Samantha twelve years ago. He’d tried then to leave his life as the art thief known only as The Monarch, pissing off his partner, Lew. It hadn’t worked. They had made too many enemies over the years. One night, while on vacation in Paris with Samantha, his past had come calling. He’d managed to protect her, but his secret was out. He explained everythin
g to Samantha when the ordeal was over. He had to know if she could handle what he was asking her to endure. She said she could, but Jonathan had seen the doubt in her eyes. After one last night together, Jonathan had slipped out of their bed and into the dawn light. He left a note saying how sorry he was and how to contact him if she should ever be in danger—­especially if it was because of their time together—­but he never saw her again.

  That is, until five years ago when she placed the ad on Craigslist that was actually a call for help. He couldn’t believe it when he saw that ad.

  The same way he couldn’t believe that thanks to that last night, he had a six-­year-­old daughter.

  “HANG ON. I’VE got it here somewhere,” Jonathan said, digging through his pockets. The lights in the all-­night grocery were ridiculously bright and right now each bulb seemed to be focused on him.

  He was sure he’d grabbed the five-­dollar bill off the table before walking up the street to pick up some milk for Natalie’s cereal in the morning, but now all he was finding was pocket lint. He smiled apologetically to the ­people behind him in line who were feigning either ignorance or patience.

  “Here it is!” Jonathan said with a little too much enthusiasm. He knew he shouldn’t have gone out after having a scotch on top of the drinks he had at dinner, but they needed the milk. It was why he’d walked, and while he wasn’t drunk, he certainly didn’t have all his wits about him.

  The teenage cashier smiled condescendingly at his triumph as she gave him his change.

  “Have a nice day,” she said around her bubble gum.

  Jonathan grabbed his milk and rushed out of the store, almost knocking over a carpet cleaning display in his rush. Not just from the embarrassment, but because he wanted to get home to Natalie. The house was locked up tight and she was sound asleep in her bed, but he still hated when he had to leave her alone. The reality of being a single dad continually pushed him farther out of his comfort zone than any day had as a thief.

  On the walk home he thought about Natalie’s dreams again. He was so lost in thought, he didn’t notice two men fall into step behind him as he turned the corner off the main drag onto the sparsely illuminated side street that led to his house, still several blocks away. It took his instincts a few minutes to wriggle through the scotch haze in his brain.

  Jonathan abruptly stopped and pretended to search for something in his pocket. The men stopped too. He started walking again when his charade was over, and so did his shadows.

  Shit.

  Most likely he was about to be the subject of a good, old-­fashioned mugging. But what were they waiting for?

  He looked up the dimly lit street ahead of him and saw the answer to his question. While sparse, the lighting on the side street was sufficient enough to ward off danger. But up ahead two streetlights were burned out. He knew if he waited until they were out of the light, bad things would happen.

  He thought about running. He was still in reasonably good shape and it was only a ­couple of blocks, but nothing said the guys behind him were meth heads. With his luck lately, they’d be part of the Olympic relay team.

  There really was only one choice. Confrontation. And pedestrian though it was, his biggest concern was the milk he carried. He didn’t have any money to replace it if it ended up on the street in whatever was about to happen. He swayed over to the right of the sidewalk and swung the bag into the top of a hedge. When he was sure the cushy branches had caught and held the bag, he turned and walked back toward his stalkers.

  He caught them by such surprise they not only stopped but backed up several steps. One of them was small and overweight and looked like the biggest exercise he got was rolling over to fart at night. He was a pace behind his buddy, and Jonathan guessed their pecking order was evident in that stance. The other one would be a problem. He was huge. Six-­four, at least, Jonathan figured, having to look up to meet the guy’s gaze from his own height of six-­foot-­two. He was probably heavier than his buddy, but not in the same way. And he seemed to be pissed. On the plus side, it appeared that if Jonathan knocked him on his ass, his buddy wouldn’t be a problem.

  Jonathan caught himself. Maybe we don’t start this with assault. Who knew what they wanted.

  “Can I help you boys?” Jonathan asked, his voice neither threatening nor timid. Let them decide how this should go.

  The big one seemed to look to his friend for guidance before he answered, and in that moment, Jonathan realized he should have just kept walking. No matter what these guys said or thought when they started after him, they wouldn’t have done anything. Whatever happened now was Jonathan’s fault, and he knew it.

  “Stay away from her, man,” the guy said.

  “Her? What are you . . . wait. You mean Trudy?” Jonathan was amazed, not at the connection but at the fact that these guys had apparently followed him and Trudy and he hadn’t even noticed. Am I that rusty?

  “Did you fuck her? Fuck her in my fucking car, you stupid fuck!” The guy’s cool lasted about ten seconds. He was almost crying. This was embarrassing.

  “Look . . .” Jonathan mentally scanned through the reams of things Trudy had said to him tonight and found her ex-­husband’s name. “Look, Steve. You’ve got the wrong idea. Man, have you got the wrong idea.”

  “Just . . . just leave her alone. Fucker.” This guy was a one-­note wonder. “She needs to work shit out and she can’t do that if you’re all smooth and shit in her fucking face.”

  “Yeah!” the little butterball chimed in.

  “I’ll try and watch the, uh, smoothness,” Jonathan said. He sighed and returned to his milk, figuring turning his back on these guys was about as dangerous as taking a shower without a bathmat.

  Then pain suddenly sparked in the side of his head.

  “Fucker!” Steve shouted as he and his rotund friend ran off, high-­fiving as they did.

  Jonathan took his hand away from his head and saw blood on his fingers. He looked down and saw the rock they’d pitched at him.

  “What are you? Ten!” Jonathan shouted after them, thinking about going after them for a second, but realizing that leaving Trudy to him was punishment enough.

  He grabbed the milk from its hedge resting place and heard a pop.

  “No, no, no.” Lifting the bag up, he saw a thin stream of milk pour out the hole he’d just torn in it. “Damn it!”

  Jonathan ran, holding the milk out in front of him like a bomb, all the while milk streamed out of the container and all over him. By the time he made it to his kitchen and grabbed a container, he’d saved about a cup’s worth. He carefully put the cup in the fridge and went to get a bandage and some ibuprofen for the pounding lump on the side of his head.

  He cleaned up the wound but when he dug under the sink for the bandages all he found was an empty box. Fed up, Jonathan tossed the towel into the sink, stomped into the living room, and opened his laptop. While it booted up, he poured himself another drink to drown out the little voice in his head whining about his promise.

  “Come on!” he said a little too loud, wincing both from the headache and the idea he might wake Natalie up. When silence prevailed and the throbbing subsided, he opened a browser window and logged on to a Web site he hadn’t been to in years.

  The page resolved and asked for his log-­in name and password, no logo or text displayed to show the identity of the site. It made sense, since the site didn’t know his real identity either.

  Jonathan logged in with his numeric username and password, memorized long ago. Another minute of account fetching and the details of his bank account in the Caymans displayed. When the account balance popped onto the screen, it eased his frustration somewhat. Nine-­figure numbers tended to do that.

  “Enough is enough,” he said, keying in a transfer to his local Tallahassee account. He wouldn’t take much. No sense in that. A hundred thousand should suffi
ce.

  Jonathan licked his lips as he hovered the mouse pointer over the commit button. This would change everything. No more crappy photography. No more insipid clients. No more cutting coupons or counting change. No more stealing gas money from the swear jar.

  He looked up at the faces of Samantha and Natalie staring down at him from the mantel, the diffused lamp light making them seem at once disappointed and angry. On her deathbed, Samantha had made Jonathan promise that he would never allow his old life to come anywhere near their daughter. He’d easily agreed, but then she’d added that she also meant his old life’s bank account. Jonathan didn’t like it, but he understood. She wanted Natalie raised as normal as possible. And while his money wasn’t technically stolen, it was the result of less than lawful activities. A mere moment of looking into her eyes made him promise without reservation. But that was then.

  After a long, self-­deprecating moment, he slammed the lid of the laptop closed, drained the rest of his drink, and fell back on the sofa, a familiar lump where a spring had slipped digging into his back. He shook off the despair and chuckled.

  “Look at it this way. It can’t possibly get any worse.”

  3

  FCI Yazoo City

  Yazoo, Mississippi

  9:00 P.M. Local Time

  “HAVE A SEAT,” the warden’s secretary said with a smirk. Lewis Katchbrow shuffled over to one of the empty plastic chairs against the wall in his ankle chains and wedged his six-­foot, two-­hundred-­twenty-­pound frame into it as best he could. He winced as his hands, handcuffed to the chain around his waist, were squished against the chair’s arms. Lew heard the secretary chuckle, but ignored him.

  That’s how Lew had spent most of his two years in Yazoo, Mississippi’s Federal Correctional Institute—­below the radar. Minding his own business. Most, until today, that is. He still couldn’t believe what had happened in the past few hours.