Mr. Monk Goes to Germany Lee Goldberg (my reading book .txt) 📖

in our rental car along a winding road that went deep into Spessart Forest. The deeper we got into the woods, the more uncomfortable Monk became.

“There are a lot of trees,” Monk said, hugging himself.

“I think it’s nice,” I said.

“Trees scare me.”

“A tree can’t hurt you,” I said.

“You obviously didn’t see The Wizard of Oz,” he said.

“You mean the scene where the trees come alive?”

Monk shuddered. “It was terrifying. I had nightmares for years.”

“It was make-believe. Trees don’t really talk and throw apples at you.”

“I know that,” Monk said. “But they are big and dark and surround you. They are rough and sticky and sharp. They block out the light and have strange creatures living in their branches.”

“Like birds,” I said.

“And snakes, spiders, ants, bees, and things in cocoons,” Monk said. “The only thing scarier than a tree is a cocoon.”

“What can a cocoon do to you?”

“You could get trapped in one,” Monk said.

“It’s not the cocoon you should be afraid of,” I told him. “It’s the caterpillar big enough to make one that you could get caught in.”

“It could be out there,” Monk said, looking into the trees.

“No, it couldn’t,” I said. “Caterpillars that big don’t exist.”

“Dwarfs have lived in these woods for centuries. Who knows what other freakish creatures are living here, too?” Monk said. “Speaking of which, there’s no way Dr. Rahner could have established his colony of freaks without Hauptkriminalkommissar Stoffmacher knowing about it.”

That hadn’t occurred to me.

“So the police knew who the eleven-fingered man was that we were looking for from the get-go and they didn’t say a word,” I said. “They were protecting him.”

“Unless there are a lot of men with eleven fingers in Lohr, which, given its history, is entirely possible.”

We came to a curve and a sign on the road that announced Sicherer Hafen. We passed the sign and almost immediately came upon the purely decorative wooden gates of the resort, which opened onto a gravel courtyard in front of a picturesque main house.

The entrance to the resort brought back long-forgotten memories from my childhood of my parents taking me to Santa’s Village, an amusement park in the Santa Cruz Mountains.

The entrance to Santa’s Village was a log-cabin lodge that was covered year-round with fake snow and icicles. Once inside the park, you could meet Santa Claus at the lollipop tree, visit the enchanted forest on a candy cane sleigh pulled by real reindeer, see Santa’s elves at work in the toy factory, eat sugarplums in Mrs. Claus’ cozy kitchen, and ride the glimmering ornaments on an enormous rotating Christmas tree.

There weren’t any reindeer or candy canes at Sicherer Hafen, but the resort had the same woodsy, warm, storybook feel as Santa’s Village. The buildings weren’t as fanciful and there were satellite dishes mounted on roofs, but I still expected to hear the sound of sleigh bells wafting from the trees and Christmas music playing from hidden speakers as I stepped out of the car.

We joined Dr. Rahner, Dr. Kroger, and a dozen other shrinks outside the main house.

“We don’t usually welcome visitors, but this is a special occasion, ” Dr. Rahner said. “Please do not take pictures or stare at the guests. Remember that this is a vacation community, a place where our residents and guests can relax and be themselves. That fragile peace is very important to all of us here at Sicherer Hafen and I would appreciate it if you didn’t do anything to disturb it.”

Monk screamed and pointed at the trees.

“Grizzly bear! Run for your lives!” Monk ran to hide behind our car.

I looked toward the trees and at first had the same instinctive reaction as Monk until I noticed that this bear was wearing cutoffs and holding a volleyball under his hairy arm.

It wasn’t a bear but a shirtless man with an unbelievably thick coat of fur over his entire body. I’d never seen anyone like him and, despite Dr. Rahner’s request, I couldn’t stop staring.

“That is not a bear,” Dr. Rahner said. “That’s Franco Tozza, our activities director.”

“The first activity he should consider is a haircut,” Monk said, rising from his hiding spot.

“That is just the kind of ignorance and heartlessness that people come here to escape,” Dr. Rahner said. “Franco was born with hypertrichosis, a genetic condition that causes excessive hair growth. It can be a source of great embarrassment and shame in mainstream society. But here it’s not. Here he can walk with pride. That is the beauty of Sicherer Hafen.”

Franco stopped in front of Monk and smiled. “It’s okay. You don’t have to be embarrassed.”

“I know,” Monk said. “But you do.”

There were gasps at Monk’s inappropriate comment, but Franco didn’t seem offended, though I have to admit it’s hard to read the expression on someone’s face when he looks like Chewbacca.

“He’s right. Ordinarily, I’m the one who has to be ashamed, who has to hide his body and try to fit in. But not at Sicherer Hafen. That’s what makes this place that Dr. Rahner founded so special.” Franco spoke with a strong Italian accent that made him a bit difficult to understand. That, and the hair over his mouth. “People come from across Europe to stay here. We offer all the amenities and activities that other time-share resorts do and something more: true freedom to be yourself.”

“I know you are all feeling uncomfortable right now,” Dr. Rahner said to the group.

“That’s an understatement,” Monk said in a whiny voice.

“But what you’re feeling is an absolutely normal, instinctivereaction to encountering other humans with