Mr. Monk and the Two Assistants by Goldberg, Lee (books for students to read .TXT) 📕

is expecting us. We have questions to ask.”

“Let’s wait outside until the mass is over,” I said. “We’ll talk to him then.”

“I’m getting really tired of you yanking me around,” Monk said.

“I’m sorry.” I held up my hands. “Please, Mr. Monk, do it for me.”

Monk shrugged and started to turn back toward the door. But as he was taking his first step, Father Bowen spoke.

“The body of Christ,” Father Bowen said.

Perhaps it was the mention of a body that caught Monk’s attention. Perhaps it was simply hearing someone speak.

Whatever the reason, Monk looked at the altar just as Father Bowen placed a wafer from the basket of hosts on a parishioner’s tongue.

The parishioner, a young woman, swallowed it, said, “Amen,” then stepped aside to the eucharistic minister, who offered her the chalice of consecrated wine. The parishioner took a sip. Then the minister wiped the rim with a linen cloth, rotated the chalice a tiny bit and offered it to the next person in line.

Monk stared in shocked disbelief as Father Bowen placed a wafer on a man’s tongue. The man then moved to the minister with the chalice and took a sip of wine.

“Did you see that?” Monk said to me.

“We can talk about it outside,” I said.

Monk watched as another person, a balding man with a scraggy beard, opened his mouth for the wafer. Just as Father Bowen was about to place the wafer on the man’s tongue, Monk yelled: “That’s enough!”

Everyone froze. I wanted to crawl under a pew and hide. The nightmare was happening just as I’d envisioned it moments earlier. Why couldn’t I have foreseen this an hour ago?

“What has gotten into you people?” Monk asked the entire congregation.

“The love of God,” the scraggy-bearded man said.

“First you all stick your fingers in the same bowl of water. Now you’re letting this man”—Monk motioned to Father Bowen, a gray-haired man in his fifties who seemed to have aged ten years since we stepped into the church— “stick his fingers in your mouth without washing his hands first? Two seconds ago his fingers were in that other guy’s mouth. Didn’t you see that? Are you all blind?”

“This is holy communion,” Father Bowen said.

“This is a public health emergency,” Monk said. “How can you all sip from the same glass of wine? Who knows how many infectious diseases the people in this room are carrying?”

“We are becoming one with Jesus, who was sacrificed on the cross to atone for our sins,” Father Bowen said. “Millions of people around the world do this each and every day.”

“It’s a miracle that there are any Catholics left,” Monk said. “I’m locking down this place until the health department gets here. You’re all under quarantine. We can’t let the contamination spread.”

Father Bowen turned to one of the ministers, handed him the basket of hosts and spoke in a whisper that we couldn’t hear. Then Father Bowen faced Monk again.

“Let’s talk outside,” he said and motioned us to follow him out into the cemetery. “We’ll still be within the mission’s walls.”

“I can’t believe what’s happening,” Monk said to me in bewilderment as we headed toward the side exit. “Ever since Sharona came back, the world just hasn’t been the same.”

I couldn’t argue with that.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Mr. Monk Hears a Confession

Father Bowen seemed surprisingly calm, considering that he was facing the man who’d just ruined his morning mass. We stood beside the statue of Father Junipero Serra, who founded Mission Dolores and twenty others throughout California. Father Serra, who was only five feet tall, would have had to stand on a stepladder to be eye to eye with his own statue.

“I’m sorry if our religious practices are in conflict with your own personal beliefs,” Father Bowen said. “But as long as you are in our church, I must insist that you respect our rituals.”

“Germs don’t,” Monk said.

I was definitely glad I hadn’t mentioned the measles thing to Monk.

“Surely you didn’t come here because you’re concerned about the spread of disease,” Father Bowen said.

“I am always concerned about that,” Monk said.

“We came here to talk about Ronald Webster,” I said. “This is Adrian Monk.”

“Ah, yes,” Father Bowen said. “The police warned me you’d be coming.”

“Warned?” Monk said.

“That was a poor choice of words,” Father Bowen said. “They alerted me. And of course I am glad to help in any way I can.”

“You can start by wearing sterile gloves when you handle those wafers,” Monk said.

“I meant regarding Ronald Webster,” he said. “I was shocked to hear about his death.”

“What shocked you the most?” Monk said. “His death or how he died?”

“I was told that he drowned at Baker Beach,” Father Bowen said. “Was there more to it than that?”

“It’s a nude beach,” Monk said.

“And he was attacked by an alligator,” I said.

“An alligator?” Father Bowen said. Now he was really shocked—so shocked, in fact, that he had to take a seat on a bench.

“And he was nude,” Monk said. “Everybody was.”

“How did an alligator get on the beach?” Father Bowen asked.

“We don’t know,” Monk said. “Aren’t you curious about why Ronald was naked?”

“Not really,” Father Bowen said.

“Was that because Ronald often liked to run around naked?” Monk said.

“No,” Father Bowen said.

“Then why doesn’t his nudity interest you?” Monk asked.

“Because he was killed by an alligator,” Father Bowen said. “I’ve never heard of that happening in San Francisco before.”

“What kind of person was Ronald Webster?” I asked.

“Conscientious, soft-spoken and devoted to God,” Father Bowen said.

“And kind of dull,” I said. “Or so we’ve heard.”

“He wasn’t the outgoing type, if that’s what you’re saying, ” Father Bowen said. “But he was a good man. He worked very hard at that.”

“Why?” Monk