Grimm: The Chopping Block (30 page)

“Next!” he barked.

One by one, the passengers handed over their phones and Decker removed the sim cards, stuffing the tiny chips in his trouser pocket. He tossed the phones in the glove compartment.

“Don’t worry. You’ll get them back on your way home tonight.”

“Lead the way,” Monroe said, belatedly realizing how stupid he was for uttering that particular phrase. “Obviously, I mean, I’m looking forward to this evening in a mouthwatering, stomach-grumbling way. Licking my Blutbad chops.”

Decker looked at him and, despite the fixed grin on his face, his eyes remained cold and wary.
He takes his chauffeur duty seriously
, Monroe realized.
Jokes about the feast are falling flat. Worse, my rambling is making him suspicious
.

“Sorry,” Monroe said. “This is a big step for me.”

“One last thing,” Decker said, leaning forward slightly to reach under his seat.

Monroe tensed. In that instant, an image flashed through his mind: Decker pulling out a gun and shooting him right in the middle of his forehead. Monroe never suspected Decker’s role in the Silver Plate Society. And what was the exact nature of that role? More than cannibal and chauffeur? Could Decker have butchered and buried all the victims in Nick’s bare bones case? Just how dangerous was his old friend? Monroe forced himself not to recoil or flinch—and almost sighed audibly when he saw only black cloth come up in Decker’s hand.

“Put these over your heads,” he said, tossing hoods over the seat to the three other passengers. “Everyone except Monroe.”

“Why not him?” Ellen Crawford asked suspiciously.

“He’s an old buddy,” Decker said. “I trust him. Besides, he’s visible up front. How will that look out on the highway? A passenger wearing a hood over his face? The goal is to not draw attention to our little shindig. That’s why I’m driving this crappy old van and not a stretch limo for you folks.” He waved his index finger in a horizontal circle, like a baseball umpire signaling a home run. “C’mon, people! You want to party, you wear the hoods!”

Overcoat man nodded once, slipped the hood on. Ellen nodded to her son and they both complied with Decker’s directive.

“Satisfied?” Ellen asked, her voice a bit muffled by the cloth.

“Indubitably, dear lady,” Decker said. “And congratulations, folks. You’ve made the last run of the last night. So let’s rock and roll!”

He shifted the van into gear, checked the side view mirror and pulled out into light traffic. Monroe also checked the mirror, ostensibly backing up Decker’s caution, but actually he hoped to see the Land Cruiser enter the flow of traffic behind them. With so few cars on the road, Nick would have to hang back, way back, to avoid detection.

Decker began to whistle a series of classic rock tunes. After a few minutes of this, Ellen Crawford said, “Must you?”

“Excuse me, lady?”

“Is the radio busted in this crappy van?”

“We got us a firecracker,” Decker said, chuckling. “Guess some folks get irritable when they’re hungry.” He turned on the radio, hit a preset which delivered a dose of death metal, and cranked up the volume. “Better?”

Ellen fired back, “Immeasurably.”

Decker slapped the steering wheel, laughing heartily.

“Don’t look so glum, Monroe,” Decker said after a sideways glance. “You’ll remember this night for the rest of your life.”

Monroe nodded, feigning as much enthusiasm as possible with a queasy stomach and virtually bleeding ears. Hunching a bit in his seat, he glanced surreptitiously in the mirror again, hoping for the slightest glimpse of Nick’s Land Cruiser. No such luck.

In a crowded van, headed for a cannibal’s feast, Monroe was completely alone.

In the hours since his captivity began, Hank had managed to remove his gag, but had little to show for his work trying to loosen the freakishly large eyebolt to which they had chained his iron collar. The ungainly bolt looked as if it had been forged by a medieval blacksmith—and for all Hank knew, it had. The collar seemed of more recent vintage, perhaps Civil War era. Both were crude but effective.

The eyebolt itself had been welded to a metal plate, which had four heavy duty bolts at the corners screwed into the concrete wall. Rather than a single point to stress, he needed to place back-and-forth pressure on the entire plate. If he could work enough play into those four points, he might then wedge his chain in the gap between plate and wall and wrench the plate free. But even if he succeeded in freeing himself from the wall, he would need to drag the collar chain and heavy metal plate with him, in addition to the wrist and ankle chains. With twenty pounds of chain and metal in tow, his chance of making a stealthy escape was practically nonexistent.

Once he’d removed his gag, he told the other captives he was a Portland PD homicide detective working on the case and that his partner and the entire police force would leave no stone unturned to rescue them. As the hours crept by with no sign of a police raid, their initial excitement waned. And they finally sank back into their hopeless state of resignation when the man they called the butcher—a horn-faced Wesen reminiscent of a rhino—collected one of their number, an Indian woman named Nisha Nadeem, who kicked and screamed as the butcher dragged her from the basement.

Hank flung himself against his chains, straining to block the large man, to engage him somehow and stop him before he could leave with the woman, but he couldn’t come close enough to his path to even warrant the Wesen’s attention.

“Let her go!” Hank yelled. “Take me instead!”

The butcher paused, glanced dismissively at Hank and said, “Your time is coming, hunter. Soon.”

Hunter? What the hell’s he talking about? I’m no hunter
.

Without another word, the butcher ascended the stairs, dragging the hysterical woman with him. The door slammed shut with an ominous clang of metal, followed by the click of a deadbolt falling into place.

At that moment, Hank realized the Wesen was overconfident. He’d met little, if any, effective resistance culling his “livestock” from the chained herd and had no doubt the routine would continue until they were all dead. That overconfidence was a weakness Hank could exploit—given the opportunity.

“There’s nothing you can do,” Alice said miserably, as if reading his thoughts. “Doesn’t matter you’re a cop. He’s a monster. You see that, don’t you? One by one he takes us away and butchers us. Then, upstairs, they eat us.”

“She’s right,” said Philippe Brosseau, a young man across from Hank. “One time, he left the door open… just enough that we could hear the… the chopping sounds.”

“I’ll think of something,” Hank said. “Help is coming.”

“Look at you,” Alice said bitterly. “You’re chained, same as us. No different. And nobody knows where we are, or they’d have come already. Face it, Detective Hank Griffin, we’re all going to die here. Even you.”

“Shut up, Alice!” Philippe said, lashing out with his leg and kicking an overturned slop bucket. “You’re not helping.”

“Nobody can help.”

Hank watched the iron-bound wooden bucket rolling toward him. He hooked his good foot through the metal handle and pulled it toward his hands. The butcher fed the captives slop every few days and usually collected the buckets afterward. But he was so sure of his own dominance over the dejected humans, he’d become careless.

For the rest of the night, Hank worked on breaking the bucket down into its constituent parts. He slammed it against the wall, battered it with his manacles, and stressed it with an application of his chains. One of the slats cracked and broke free, forming a crude wooden stake. The iron bands might be useful as levers against the metal plate bolted to the wall, but he concentrated on filing the narrow end of the stake down, rubbing each side against the rough concrete wall, sharpening the point.

An opportunity. That’s all he needed.

While music played upstairs, Hank worked on the pieces of the bucket. As the early morning hours approached, the other captives—sensing they were safe from selection for a while—dozed off, one by one, falling into fitful, nightmare-laden sleep. A few of them screamed during the night.

In the morning, exhausted, Hank hid the stake under his sprawled body, along with one of the iron bands, and permitted himself a nap. But he shouldn’t have bothered. Anxiety followed him into a light sleep that ended each time the horned face of the butcher leaned over him and said, “Time’s up, hunter!”

Hank startled awake repeatedly, clutching at his hidden weapon, only to come to his senses and realize the image had been a fractured nightmare. Twice during the day the butcher came, first taking a middle-aged man who had slipped into a state approaching catatonia. The butcher tugged his slack body out of the room. Minutes later, he came back for a college-aged woman who kept screaming, over and over again, “No—no—no!”

Both times, Hank yelled at the butcher, insisting the butcher take him and not his chosen victim. The first time, the Wesen ignored him, but the second time, he paused long enough to say, “I’d cut out your tongue, hunter, but they want to hear you scream.”

Hours passed in frustration. Hank had promised these people he would help them, but he was powerless unless the butcher came within arm’s reach. Forced to bide his time, Hank continued to work on the bolts of the metal plate that secured his collar chain.

With the approach of evening, the butcher came for another visit. The deadbolt turned. The door handle squeaked and the door opened, sending a shaft of cold light into the dim basement.

Hank grabbed his collar chain and pulled with all his might. Concrete dust sifted down from behind the plate and he sensed some give in the bolts, but not enough to pull free. If he had the chance to attack the butcher, he must keep in mind that his range was limited by the collar chain. If the initial attack failed, the butcher had only to take one step back to render Hank powerless again.

The Wesen stood in the shaft of light coming from the hallway that led to the slaughtering room.

“I have some good news,” he said, turning so that his gaze passed over the ten remaining captives, including Hank. And that’s where he stopped, while staring at Hank.

Here it comes
, Hank thought, slipping his hand under his side. The crude weapon remained hidden, but ready.

“The good news for you, hunter, is that you bypass my table and tools,” he said, his deep voice sounding like stones rolling in a barrel. “This is Last Night. And the special honor of the
Straffe Kette Abendessen
is yours. Eaten fresh.”

“Doesn’t sound like good news to me,” Hank said.

“A matter of perspective,” the butcher said, shrugging with amusement. “As for the rest of you, the good news is that you will not, unfortunately, be eaten by the guests.”

Alice sat up, leaning forward until she winced in pain and clutched her ribs. When she spoke, her voice was a little breathless, but held a new note of cautious hope.

“You’ll—let us go? Let us live?”

The butcher shook his head. “Unfortunately, you’re spoilage.”

“What is that? What does that mean?” Alice said. “Tell me!”

Hank had a feeling she wouldn’t like the answer. They were all witnesses, and dead witnesses tell no tales. As the butcher strode toward him, Hank tensed, clutching the wooden stake out of view. A dozen coarse splinters stabbed his palm and fingers but the needles of pain helped him focus.

“I leave it to our own hunter to explain spoilage to you, Alice,” the butcher said as he removed an antique keychain from a front pocket in his bloodied apron. “He’ll give you a practical demonstration. All of you.” He lowered himself on one knee next to Hank, keychain in his right hand. “But this hunter’s time has come.”

Hank had been waiting for the butcher to fumble with the key and the lock to attack, in the moment the larger man was distracted. That’s when he intended to drive the stake into the butcher’s throat, a fatal blow. What he hadn’t counted on was the butcher’s first move.

The Wesen’s left hand clamped over Hank’s forehead, the muscles in his forearm and biceps bulging as he prepared to shove Hank’s head back against the wall to stun him.

Hank had an instant to react before the back of his head struck the wall. With the butcher’s neck blocked by his massive, raised left arm, Hank had no choice but to drive the stake under the ribs, where the old wood had the best chance of penetrating flesh.

A split second after the makeshift stake stabbed into flesh, Hank’s head banged into the wall, dazing him. His arm numb, he lost his grip on the stake, which had snapped in half after sinking less than an inch into the Wesen’s tough hide.

Hank grabbed the round iron band and attempted to brain the man, but his uncoordinated movements were ineffective.

He fought for consciousness, only vaguely aware of the crude collar slipping free of his chafed neck. The butcher then hoisted Hank’s body in the air, throwing him over his shoulder in a fireman’s carry. The room spun beneath Hank, causing a surge of nausea that forced him to close his eyes to hold it at bay.

But moments later, he slipped deeper into darkness and couldn’t find his way back.

* * *

As they drove away from the heart of Portland, traffic became even lighter, forcing Nick to drop back farther and farther from the white van. Decker left main highways for country roads, turning seemingly at random and doubling back to his southwesterly direction. He’d made this run before and had a procedure designed to discourage tails. Make enough random turns and the same car stays behind you, chances are the driver is following you.

Nick couldn’t risk being made by Decker. The man could pull into a rest stop, allowing time and Hank’s life to slip away. He had to err on the side of caution and hope that, if Decker slipped free, Monroe would contact him and Renard and guide them to the cannibal house.

“Heard from the FBI field office,” Renard said, as all around them drivers began to switch on their headlights. “Word is, they’re taking over tomorrow. You and I and the rest of the department will be on support detail.”