Grimm: The Chopping Block (8 page)

With the legitimate excuse of a budding headache and an early morning appointment, she tapped Lisa on the shoulder and whispered her intention to leave. Lisa flashed her a sympathetic face, but the gesture was fleeting, almost perfunctory, and the offer to walk her out of the restaurant vanished without a trace as another moment of head-pounding hilarity erupted around the table. So Sheila slipped out, depressingly certain that no one would miss her.

She picked up her linen jacket on the way out, crossed the street and tried to remember where she’d parked her five-year-old silver Camry. Parking had been at a premium when she arrived and she’d managed to find a spot on a side street a few blocks away from
La Porte Bleue
. As she walked on her two-inch heels along the uneven asphalt, she felt a little wobbly.

Should’ve had more fondue
, she thought,
and less wine
.

Lightheadedness on top of the building headache lent the streets around her a surreal quality, as if she’d stepped out of one world into another. A shroud of mist caused surrounding streetlights to glow eerily. A chill in the air made her shudder. Then she wondered if the chill had been responsible, or her sudden isolation. Reaching into her clutch purse, she pulled out her keys.

Down a narrow side street, she spotted her Camry in front of a white Ford Econoline van with a T
HOMAS
E
LECTRIC
sign on the side, the lower case L taking the form of a stylized lightning bolt. As she passed the van, she glanced through the driver’s side window, a quick peek, not wanting to attract a stranger’s attention when she felt a little tipsy and vulnerable. Not when the world seemed to have skipped off its track. But nobody sat in the van.

She exhaled suddenly, unaware until that moment that she’d been holding her breath as she approached the van.

With the tension gone, she mentally kicked herself for not switching on her business persona at the party. She should have passed out her Forrester Cade Realty business cards, asking for referrals, mentioning available properties. But even as she entertained the idea, envisioning that alternate reality where she shamelessly promoted the business—which had seen better days—she rejected the notion. She couldn’t be that person, making the event all about her, grabbing the bride’s spotlight and shining it on herself. Of course, that kind of behavior would ensure she’d never receive invitations to any social gatherings ever again.

So there’s a positive
, she thought, laughing at her self-pitying, misanthropic mood—and promptly dropped her keys.

Crouching down to scoop up the plastic key fob, she caught movement out of the corner of her eye. A car door squeaked behind her. She stood up straight—without her keys—and backed away as a dark shape rushed her from the van.

She squealed in fright, as if jolted with electricity.

The driver must have been hiding below the window line of the van, waiting for her to pass before jumping out. He pointed down to her keys.

“Let me help you with that.”

“No! I don’t need any—”

Instead of reaching for the keys, his gloved hands came at her face.

His own face began to transform into something hideous, as if he were becoming evil incarnate. Too startled to scream, unable to find her voice, she stared in horror. An instant later, strong hands wrapped around her neck and clutched her jaw, twisting violently. Something snapped, a sharp spike of pain overwhelmed her, and then nothing—

* * *

With practiced efficiency, he carried the woman’s body back to the van, slid the unlocked side door open, tossed her in, and slammed the door shut. Five seconds from start to finish. He fetched her car keys, stuffed them in his trouser pocket and returned to the van.

After starting the engine, he swung the van around her Camry and drove down the side street, unnoticed. Later, he’d remove the large magnetic Thomas Electric signs he’d slapped on each side panel of the van and replace them with one of the other half-dozen signs he carried in order to confuse witness descriptions of his vehicle. And, later still, he’d come back and dispose of the car to muddle the trail for the police. But first he needed to dump the body. The car could wait.

In a few days, none of it would matter anyway.

Despite a late and interesting night with Juliette, Nick Burkhardt arrived at the precinct before Hank, who dealt with the all-day challenge of getting from points A through Z on a pair of crutches. Only fair to cut him some slack. Wouldn’t have been so bad if either of his two biggest cases had some forward progress. Too much to hope the two cases might be somehow related, but they couldn’t have been more dissimilar.

The Cracher-Mortel menacing Portland brought his victims back from apparent death, for some unknown endgame. Meanwhile, the bare bones killer had gone out of his way to make sure his victims were definitively dead, removing tissue and organs, chopping the bones into manageable pieces and, according to the ME, boiling them either with or without the flesh attached.

They knew the identity of the Cracher-Mortel’s victims: Lilly O’Hara and Richard Mulpus; the bare bones killer’s victims remained anonymous, pending IDs through dental records. And while they knew the “zombie” case involved a Wesen perp, the bare bones killer might be human or Wesen.

If Nick had to bet one way or the other, he’d put his money on Wesen involvement. Or maybe he was simply reluctant to assign this level of depravity to a fellow human being. Not that many Wesen weren’t fine, upstanding citizens. By Grimm standards, his tolerance of most Wesen was unusual, judging by their shocked reactions when they realized he wouldn’t kill them indiscriminately. Still, some of the things he had seen…

By the time he settled at his desk with his first cup of office coffee, the lab results from tests on the evidence collected from Guerra’s cavern were waiting in his inbox. As he’d expected, based upon the row of mounted antlers in the Mordstier’s back room, the bones outside the cabin were confirmed as belonging to a deer. None of the blood tested in the dwelling was human. And, cherry on top, none of the weapons collected was a match for the murder weapon.

He called out a greeting to Hank as his partner navigated the office on crutches and finally reached his desk, next to Nick’s.

“Coffee should be hot,” Nick said, nodding toward the extra mug he’d made for Hank when pouring his own. Letting Hank walk on crutches while attempting to carry a cup of coffee back to his desk, qualified as partner abuse. “Unlike our cases.”

“They’re too fresh to be
cold
cases,” Hank said, settling in and situating his crutches so they’d be close at hand but not a tripping hazard. “We need a new word.”

“Chilly?” Nick suggested. “Infuriating? Headache-inducing?”

“Lab results in?”

“Guerra’s clean,” Nick said, then added, “In the legal sense.”

“So not the bone killer.”

“Probably not.”

“On the plus side, he racked up enough charges to keep him out of circulation for a while,” Hank said. Softer, “That’s one angry Wesen.”

“Still waiting on IDs on our victims,” Nick said. “No official COD or time of death.”

“Something will turn up,” Hank said.

Nick had a feeling the next thing that turned up would be a third victim.

* * *

Decker had told Monroe he would meet him at Portland Precision Pilates and, true to his word, he had already arrived by the time Monroe swung his VW Super Beetle into a parking space across the street from the studio. Monroe had harbored doubts his friend would show up.
Good start
, he thought. But then he noticed the unreformed Blutbad had disregarded Monroe’s advice to wear comfortable, non-restrictive clothing. He’d swapped the knit watch cap for a battered leather Confederate hat. A subtle message to Monroe that Decker was a rebel at heart? He still sported the black leather jacket, over a flannel shirt, ratty jeans and work boots.

Easily removed, the hat, jacket and boots weren’t a problem, but Monroe had doubts about the flannel shirt and jeans. He worried that an early failure would discourage Decker from continuing down the reformed path. If Monroe planned to mentor Decker, he needed to model patience without downplaying the difficulty of achieving and maintaining a reformed lifestyle.

With that in mind, Monroe had scheduled a beginner mat class at a studio. Seeing others make natural mistakes, learn from them and work toward proficiency, even at a basic level, should provide motivation to stay the course. In theory.

Monroe climbed out of the car, slipped two coiled foam floor mats under his arm, and crossed the street, flashing an encouraging smile.

“Hey, brother,” Decker said, pushing himself off the wall against which he’d been leaning to shake Monroe’s hand vigorously. “Ready and waiting.”

“How did your ‘thing’ work out?”

Decker furrowed his brow, shook his head, confused. “Thing?”

“Your meet-up?” Monroe prompted. “At Shemanski Park Market?”

“Oh—oh, that,” Decker said, chuckling. “Not gonna lie to you, brother. Could have gone better. Rough night, but long as you hit more than you miss, you count yourself lucky, right?”

“That’s a healthy attitude,” Monroe said, but worried that Decker meant “hit” in a violent context. How well did he really know the man? “Plenty of fish in the sea.”

“That there are,” Decker said. “Now, we gonna do this or what?”

“That’s the plan,” Monroe said, trying to sound more positive than he felt. Sometimes theory and practice existed worlds apart. “I brought an extra mat.”

Decker stared at the coiled mat Monroe extended to him.

“This for nappy time or something?” he asked.

“Hands and knees on a hardwood floor,” Monroe said. “You know, after a while you’ll appreciate a little cushion.”

“Oh. I get it,” Decker said with the hint of a smirk. “Soft, right?”

Monroe paused, waiting for Decker to finish the thought.

Suddenly the taller man burst out laughing and clapped Monroe on the shoulder.

“Holy hell, brother! I’m jerking your chain,” Decker said, shaking his head in disbelief. “You should’ve seen your face, dude. Never would’ve known you were reformed.”

“This is serious,” Monroe said.

“As a heart attack,” Decker said. “Gotcha. Full bore. You know me.”

“Remember, Decker,” Monroe said as they approached the glass door with three golden Ps arranged diagonally, like a mini-staircase. “Pilates is about patience, precision and breathing.”

“I know how to breathe.”

“Probably not the right way,” Monroe said, almost to himself, but Decker’s Blutbad hearing didn’t miss a word.

“You mean I’ve been doing it wrong all these years?” Decker said. “It’s a freakin’ wonder I’m still alive.”

“Okay, the Pilates way,” Monroe amended.

“I know all about Pilates,” Decker said as Monroe held the door open for him.

“Really?” Monroe said, unable to control the sudden elevation of his eyebrows.

“Yeah,” Decker said, smirking again, as he entered the studio. “Can’t wait to toss around that medicine ball. Bet I can knock you on your ass, Mr. Veggie Burger.”

Monroe sighed. “It’s not a medicine ball,” he said, hurrying to catch up to Decker. “It’s an exercise ball. And you don’t throw it at people.”

“Oh, yeah?” Decker asked. “So what do you do with the damn thing?”

“Mostly,” Monroe said, unable to help himself. “You sit on it.”

“Are you kidding me?” Decker asked, pulling up short. “What the ever-loving hell happened to you, man?”

Again, Monroe sighed. “Don’t worry about it. We’re signed up for a beginner mat class. No balls today.”

“From what I see, the balls have been missing for a while, man.”

“You know, as soon as I said it, I knew it was a huge mistake.”

Monroe’s early optimism had fled, reduced to a perfunctory sense of obligation to finish what he had started. But he chose to keep up appearances and hope that Decker would turn the corner and find some value in the class.

“Don’t sweat it, brother,” Decker said. “I’m ready to kick some Pilates ass.”

There’s no kicking
. The words popped unbidden into Monroe’s head, but he wisely kept them to himself.

* * *

Fearing Decker might become self-conscious in a group setting, Monroe had led him to the back row of the class. Out of a dozen students, Monroe counted eight women and four men. And, except for a middle-aged man who had “recent-divorce” written all over him, the others clearly had some experience with the postures, which exposed a flaw in Monroe’s plan. If the class was like an ad hoc pack, Decker’s proficiency status dropped him immediately down the dominance hierarchy, which didn’t bode well.

Decker lasted all of ten minutes before the problems started. He handled the early postures well enough, even allowing for the restriction of his flannel shirt and jeans. No problems with “one leg circle” or “roll up” and “swan dive.” But “double leg stretch” and “hundred” had him puffing and grunting when he wasn’t muttering curses. “Teaser” gave him fits, especially near the end of the hold period. “Leg pull prone” led to him crashing onto the floor and rolling off his mat.

“Son of a motherless whore!”

“Decker,” Monroe whispered, embarrassed by and for him.

“It’s nothing, I’m fine,” Decker said, waving his arm at the rest of the class, which had collectively paused to gape at him. “Go on about your business.”

When Decker elevated sideways in “side bend” with his arm extended over his head, Monroe wanted to close his eyes, but couldn’t.

Decker teetered one way, then the other, and then toppled over with a roar, emitting a growl of frustration as he woged. For a moment, Monroe feared the Blutbad might attack the class. Some of them turned around to stare; others pointedly ignored his outburst in a way that made him angrier still.

“Decker!” Monroe hissed.

But Decker ignored Monroe’s entreaties. He stood and kicked his foam mat across the floor. It spun in a half-revolution and struck a middle-aged woman two spots farther down their row.