Grimm: The Chopping Block (29 page)

“Good, you’re here,” she said brightly. “I left a couple messages. I finally got us reservations at Escapade, that new restaurant I’ve been wanting to… Nick, what’s wrong?”

“I’m sorry, Juliette,” Nick said. “Tonight’s no good.”

“Tell me,” she said, touching his arm. “I want to help—are those Hank’s crutches?”

Nick had stood the crutches in the corner, and placed Hank’s sidearm, shield and personal effects in a large manila envelope in a drawer, which he recovered, checked and closed again.

“Hank’s in trouble.”

“Did he fall? Is he in the hospital?” she asked, placing herself in front of him. Ever since she learned about his responsibilities as a Grimm and about the existence of Wesen, she refused to be left out of any conversations on those subjects. She’d been kept in the dark so long, she was determined not to let it happen again and create a gulf between them. “Did he reinjure his heel?”

“No,” Nick said. “It’s worse than that. Much worse.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Monroe’s in the car,” Nick said. “Captain Renard is meeting us here.”

“Where is Hank?”

Nick sighed. He’d told Juliette the answers to all of her questions but there were some details about Wesen culture—the consumption of human flesh and harvesting of human organs—that remained unknown to her. And sometimes truth was best absorbed in small doses. She’d been accepting about everything in his Grimm life so far, but could she handle knowing about Wesen cannibal dinner parties? He thought it prudent to save a full explanation for when time wasn’t so critical.

“Hank’s been abducted.”

“What? Who? I mean how—why?”

Setting down Hank’s stuff, Nick caught her upper arms in his hands, a calming gesture.

“We’ve been working the bare bones murders,” Nick said, proceeding cautiously.

“Yes, I know,” she said. “I’ve been following the news reports about the two sites with shallow graves. It’s awful.”

“Hank got too close to the perps—the people involved.”

“There’s more than one killer?” Juliette asked, startled.

“We don’t know,” Nick said. “But we suspect others are covering up the murders.”

“And they’re Wesen?”

“Yes, definitely.”

A car horn beeped outside. Renard.

“Is Hank—? Have they—?”

“We think Hank is alive—for now. But we need to act fast,” Nick said and gathered Hank’s items. “Gotta go. But I’ll explain everything later.”

“Call me!” she said, following him to the door. “As soon as you know Hank’s safe, call me!”

Nick promised to call her and nodded to Renard who stood waiting beside Nick’s Land Cruiser. Obviously they couldn’t involve Wu in a Wesen takedown. But at some point, they might need to call in reinforcements. For now, to ensure Hank’s survival, they had to approach the cannibal Wesen discreetly.

Nick slid the crutches into the back seat with Monroe, who still hadn’t warmed to the idea of going undercover with a secret society of Wesen cannibals. Not by a longshot.

Renard rode shotgun and Nick took the driver’s seat, tossing the manila envelope on the corner of the dashboard. Nick checked the clock.

“We should arrive ten to fifteen minutes before the pickup.”

“You’re sure about the place and the time?” Renard asked.

“Hope so,” Nick said. “Hank’s life depends on it.”

* * *

Traffic cooperated. They arrived fourteen minutes before the scheduled pickup time, assuming the open chair position on the circle represented 7:00 p.m.

Nick parked on the street, outside the strip mall parking lot, with an excellent line of sight in every direction. They expected somebody to pick up the Wesen who had accepted the invitation, but the mode of transportation remained a mystery. A stretch limousine would look garishly out of place in the rundown commercial district. But the Wesen driver could easily pull up in a taxi or an airport shuttle, even an old school bus, without attracting undue attention.

Monroe had remained quiet during the drive, but after Nick parked the Land Cruiser he became agitated, sighing and scrubbing his moustache and light beard with an open palm.

“Nick, I want to help. I do. I consider Hank my friend too. I’m just saying, with your captain here, don’t you think he might make a better
guest
at this banquet—and a much better undercover operative? Experience has to count for something—oh, no offense, Captain. I was referring to your police experience, not cannibal experience.”

“No offense taken,” Renard said, scanning left and right, mirroring Nick’s vigilance.

“Won’t work,” Nick said, without taking his attention away from the road. “Captain Renard is too high profile. After the televised press conferences this week, his face has been all over the airwaves in Portland. Too risky.”

“Right—you’re absolutely right,” Monroe said. “Okay. It’s fine. I can do this.”

“You can do this,” Nick said. “We’ve gone over it. You’re prepared. Take the ride. Stay calm. We’ll follow you to the site.”

“Okay. I’m ready.”

Nick passed folded copies of the flyers over his shoulder to Monroe.

“In case they ask how you found them.”

“Right,” Monroe said nervously.

“Wait, I recognize that woman,” Nick said, pointing toward the corner of the intersection. A middle-aged female walked beside a teenage boy. “From the photo on Crawford’s desk. That’s his wife, Ellen, and her son, Kurt.”

“They’re headed toward the white van near the bus stop,” Renard said.

“Hank’s neighbor noticed a plumber’s van near his house last night.”

“This one’s plain white,” Renard said. “Ford Econoline. Already parked there when we pulled up.”

Monroe watched the woman and her son, followed the direction of their path toward the waiting van.

“Hmm,” Monroe said. “That looks familiar.”

Ellen Crawford and her son stopped beside the driver’s side door. The driver turned toward them expectantly. Mother and son woged briefly, revealing Geier features to their driver. At the same moment, the driver woged, displaying a fierce Blutbad visage before reverting back.

“Oh, no!” Monroe said, gripping the back of Nick’s seat. “This is not good.”

“What?” Nick asked.

“The driver,” Monroe said. “That’s Decker.”

Nick stared, leaning forward over the steering wheel, trying to catch a better glimpse of the driver.

“You’re right. It’s him.”

“Who’s Decker?” Renard asked.

“Monroe’s friend,” Nick said.

“Old friend,” Monroe said. “From another time in my life.” He looked at Nick, alarmed. “What now? Nick, he knows me! I can’t go through with this.”

Renard shifted in his seat to face Nick directly.

“Are we overlooking the obvious here?” he asked. “Arrest Decker. Force him to take us to the location. Even if that requires putting a gun to his head.”

“Too risky,” Nick said, shaking his head. “Hank has an hour, two at the outside. If Decker calls our bluff, Hank dies and the Silver Plate Society scatters in the wind. Lost for twenty-five years.”

“Who said I was bluffing?” Renard’s jaw was set, unwilling to compromise, but unable to refute Nick’s logic. And killing Decker meant losing any chance of finding Hank in time.

“Nick’s right,” Monroe said. “This society has stayed secret, its members hidden, for hundreds of years. We can’t risk Hank’s life on the slim chance that Decker will cooperate. Knowing him as I do, I doubt he’d talk. He’s more likely to dig in his heels and enjoy the challenge of frustrating us until it’s too late.” He heaved a resigned sigh. “Unfortunately, I am the best option.”

He stepped out of the SUV, brushed the creases out of his trousers, patted the pockets of his cable-knit sweater and nodded.

“Okay, I’m ready.”

Nick leaned out of the window. “Are you sure about this, Monroe?” he asked, concerned for his Wesen friend. The plan hadn’t changed, but the risk level had. An anonymous ride as an open invitation guest had seemed simple enough. But with Decker involved, Monroe was no longer anonymous. “We could wait and follow the van without you.”

“We talked about this,” Monroe said. “If I’m on the van and you lose it, I can find a way to call you once I arrive at the location. If I’m not on the van and you lose it, you lose Hank. And any chance of stopping the Silver Plate Society for at least twenty-five years.”

“But he knows you,” Nick said. “He knows you’re reformed. You’re the last Wesen who’d want to attend this… party. You’ll have to convince him you’ve…”

“Fallen off the wagon,” Monroe finished. “It happens, Nick.”

“Yes, but can you sell it?”

“Let me worry about that.”

He’s right
, Nick thought. They had no other choice. Either Monroe convinced his old friend that he’d lapsed in his reformed lifestyle or they would have to roll the dice with Renard’s suggestion, a gun to Decker’s head. Given both options, Nick had more faith in Monroe’s gambit.

“Good luck,” Nick said. “We’ll be right behind you.”

“Not too close,” Monroe said. “If he spots the tail…”

No need to finish that statement. Hank’s life depended on Decker driving the van to the banquet site. Any delay or misdirection on his part and Hank would pay the ultimate price.

As Monroe walked casually toward the white van, Nick glanced at the dashboard clock. Two minutes to seven. Unconsciously, his hands tightened their grip on the steering wheel. All he could do now was follow the van and hope the plan worked.

* * *

Throat dry and heart racing, Monroe checked his wristwatch as the second hand approached twelve. Almost seven o’clock. Glancing left and right, he quickened his pace. Nobody else approached the white van. Decker could pull into traffic at any moment. Monroe turned the corner, mentally preparing his story. He’d spent the last few days trying to convince Decker how to lead a reformed lifestyle and failed miserably. Now he had to flip the script.

All week I’ve told him he never has to eat meat again
, Monroe thought.
Now I have to convince him I’m dying for a porterhouse steak. Well, not porterhouse in the traditional sense of the dish, but…

Monroe took a deep breath to calm himself.

Not even close
, he thought, nerves jangling.
Okay, work with the nervousness. Tell him, I’m jonesing for some meat
.

The van’s engine rumbled to life.

Monroe hurried forward and called out, a little too loudly, “Room for one more?”

Decker turned, looking out the window, and did a double take.

“Monroe? What in the ever-loving hell are you doing out here, brother?”

“Decker?” Monroe said, again too loudly, feigning surprise. “I had no idea you were part of this?”

“Part of what, buddy?” Decker said, tugging down the brim of his battered, black leather confederate cap. “I’m just out for a drive with a few friends.”

Stalling for time, Monroe pulled the folded flyers out of his trouser pocket.

“I finally figured out what these are. My grandfather always talked about finding an invitation.”

“Your grandfather, huh? Quite the hellion,” Decker said. “Nothing at all like you, Monroe. You color inside the lines, brother.”

“You know me,” Monroe said hastily. “My history.”

“Yes, your
history
,” Decker said. “Past tense. I know all about the present-tense Monroe and—gotta be honest with you, brother—he’s no fun. At. All.” He put the van in gear. “Now, if you’ll pardon me, I’m running late.”

“Wait!” Monroe said, catching the doorframe. “Don’t you see, Decker? All week I’ve been trying to change you, but it’s made me realize what I’ve been missing, what I’ve been denying myself. My grandfather knew the truth. This… society thing, it’s a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.”

Decker shrugged. “More or less.”

“Who knows if I’ll ever get this chance again?” Monroe said. “I’ll probably never know where the next one happens. Maybe on the other side of the world. I mean, think about it, Decker. If you live my lifestyle and you wonder if you’ll ever fall off the wagon—and it’s bound to happen, right?—what better time than now, what better excuse—than
this
!”

Whether from desperation over Hank’s plight or some long-suppressed desire to walk on the wild side again, Monroe had almost convinced himself he wanted to join the diners in a final night of cannibalistic revelry.

“Please,” Monroe said. “I
need
this.”

Resolute, Decker stared at him for the longest time, then a grin split his face. “First, lift your shirt and give me a three-sixty.”

Monroe complied; Nick expected the driver might check for a wire. “Okay?”

“Hop on board, brother,” Decker said. “It is glorious.”

Monroe nodded, fumbled with the door latch before yanking it open. Three people sat on the second row bench seat: the Crawfords, and a lightly bearded man with ramrod posture wearing an expensive overcoat, dark trousers and black boots. Monroe glanced behind the bench seat and saw only storage space with a small scattered stack of large magnetic signs advertising phony businesses.

“In the back?” he asked.

“Nonsense,” Decker said. “My good buddy rides shotgun. But make it snappy. We’re burning daylight.”

Monroe slammed the side door shut and hurried around the front of the van, wondering briefly if Decker would run him down. He climbed into the passenger seat and slammed the door shut, staring straight ahead so he wouldn’t be tempted to glance toward Nick’s Land Cruiser.

“Ready.”

“Not so fast,” Decker said. “You’re forgetting something.”

Monroe looked down, then glanced over his shoulder.

“Of course, safety first.” He yanked down the seatbelt and, with a trembling hand, poked the tongue at the buckle a couple times before he heard the lock engage.

“Safety first,” Decker said. “But cell phones second. Our party, our rules. Everybody goes off the grid for the evening.” He held out his hand expectantly. “Tell me you aren’t carrying a cell phone and I’ll perform a full body cavity search to make sure we’re being truthful with each other. So hand them over, folks. And make it quick.”

Nick had anticipated this. Of course they’d want to avoid cell phone tracking and any possibility of photographic or recorded evidence. Monroe reached into the pocket of his vest where he’d placed his cell phone and surrendered it. Decker ejected the sim card with practiced ease, using a straightened paper clip affixed to his keychain.