Grimm - The Icy Touch (18 page)

“No, Nick, you don’t know.”

“Well, then maybe you could tell me what happened, between you and the Perkins family.”

“I...” Monroe swallowed. “...cannot do that. You’re going to wait till tomorrow, really?”

“We have to. Unless we can get a raid organized tonight. There might be another judge available. I can call around.”

Nick saw Monroe’s Blutbad face come and go, as he struggled with his emotions.

“Okay,” he said at last. “I’m... going back to my truck. Assuming it hasn’t been stolen.”

“I wouldn’t assume that, around here,” Hank said.

Monroe grunted in response. “Call me if you need me.”

He got out of the car, and stalked away down the street toward Salem Boulevard.

“You think we should go after him, drive him to his truck?” Nick asked, looking after his friend. Monroe’s anger and frustration was clearly visible in the way he was walking, his shoulders stiff as he marched along. Not good.

“Naw, let him walk, he’ll cool off. No call back from Renard? Let’s try Bernstein anyway, he might answer...”

* * *

“Hey bro,” Monroe said, as the bushy-bearded Blutbad came out of the papered-up storefront. He glanced around, as if to make sure the cops weren’t around, then flashed his Blutbad face at the guy. The bestial visage was there, and gone again, in a second. “You know where I can get any... work?”

“Why?” the Blutbad asked, stopping to look him up and down.

“Why do I need work?” Monroe replied. “I like to eat! I’m not a big eater but I do need to sometimes...”

“No, dumbass. Why you asking
me
?”

“Just heard... there might be some on this street. For us, I mean. Our people. Noticed a fellow Blutbad. Thought I’d ask.” There was a scraping, rattling sound from overhead. Monroe glanced up. “You got birds up there, or something? Damned pigeons, right?”

“Why you care what we got up there?” Bushy-beard stepped closer to Monroe, squaring his shoulders.

“Me? I don’t care. I just thought... you might know where there’s some work. But... if you don’t... Hey... that’s a big whatever.”

Okay, Monroe figured, the guy wasn’t going to spill anything here on the sidewalk and he wasn’t going to invite him inside. Maybe he could sneak around back...

The Blutbad just glared at him.

Monroe cleared his throat.

“All righty then. I’ll get outta your fur, bro. Good hunting.”

Monroe turned away, whistling “Werewolves of London”—then he heard a high-pitched squawk from above, a truly horrid sound like a seagull being crushed in a vice.

“Sure thing,” he heard the Blutbad say—and suddenly Monroe felt himself grabbed by the back of his neck and belt, and shoved into the darkness around the edge of the storefront. The Blutbad heaved him hard face down, and Monroe slid in what felt like old broken beer bottles and gravel and, judging from the smell, dried up dog mess.

Well, that’s just great.

He was woged and snarling as he rolled over on his back. The Blutbad stood over him, the thug’s right side in silhouette against the partial light from the storefront, left side blending almost seamlessly with the darkness.

“I don’t know if you can see this gun in my hand,” the Blutbad said. “It’s a Beretta .44. We decided you’re going to be screened, pal. If you don’t want a bullet in your head. You’re Blutbad—and you’re either snooping way too much, or you’re just a stupid son of a bitch. If it’s the first one, we’ll kill you. If it’s the second one, and if you’re lucky—then you’ve been drafted.”

“Drafted...” Monroe sat up slowly, leaning forward, getting his feet under him. “...into what?”

“The Icy Touch,” the Blutbad said. “Only personally—I think you’re too damn dumb for it. ‘Specially as I didn’t tell you to move. And you just moved.”

“I did? Oh. So I did. But you know—it’s pretty nasty on the ground here. I think there’s dog poop. How about if I just... walk away.” Monroe adjusted his crouching posture minutely, shifting his weight to the balls of his feet. He could see that nickel-plated .44 in the Blutbad’s hand now that he was woged. His eyes were adjusting quickly. The Icy Touch thug held the gun out in front of him, just high up enough...

A rough cawing voice spoke from the roof overhead and the bushy-bearded Blutbad turned his head toward the sound.

“Get him inside,” came the raucous voice.

Monroe had a half-second to act while the Blutbad was looking away.

He used it.

He launched himself forward with all his Blutbad strength and fury, springing hard and fast under the gun. It boomed over his back, the sounds of the shot echoing down the street, as Monroe slammed his right shoulder into the Blutbad’s waist, knocking the snarling beast-man onto the sidewalk.

It was like wrestling a live power cable. The Blutbad writhed loose, rolling on top of Monroe.

But Monroe kept the roll going, throwing his weight to the left, biting the Blutbad hard in the bicep of his gun arm.

The Blutbad howled, wrenched free, and the gun went clattering away.

Monroe was on his feet, then, ready to jump at the Blutbad again, his blood up, his clawed fingers arched for ripping...

Then he heard a whirring sound, smelled that acrid stench again, turned to see a dark shape coming at him from above. A beaked nose ended in a sharp hook; two beady red eyes, small and unnaturally round, glared out of a demonically vulturine face.

Geier. Vulture Wesen,
Monroe realized.

The Wesen was backlit, claws outstretched. But the bared feet of the creature came at him first, thrusting and ripping with heel-claws. Monroe felt a piercing agony in his stomach, as the talons ripped into him, and an unstoppable momentum slammed him back onto the sidewalk. The breath came out of him... and with it came blood, bubbling up hot and thick.

“I don’t see him, Nick. He must’ve gotten to his truck already.”

Hank drove along Salem Boulevard, while Nick stared out the side window. The street looked deserted.

“Yeah. Maybe,” Nick replied.

He didn’t feel good about letting Monroe walk off angry. In this neighborhood, anything could happen.

There was that storefront Monroe had mentioned, its two front windows covered with brown paper, glowing sullenly from lights inside. He saw movement...

“Wait, Hank—hold on. Slow down.”

Hank slowed. Nick stared. Two dark shapes stood over a third in the deep shadow to one side of the storefront.

“Pull up,” Nick said. “No, screw that, just stop the car, draw your weapon, and get out.”

Nick grabbed the flashlight clipped to the dashboard with his left hand, his right already opening the car door.

Hank went immediately into backup mode. He stopped the car and got out after Nick, his gun in his hand but held down at his side.

“You! Police officer!” Nick yelled, gun in one hand, flashlight in the other. “Freeze right there!”

Nick clicked on the flashlight, spotlighting two strange figures standing over a man lying on the ground. One of the figures, Nick saw immediately, was a Blutbad; the other had blood-dripping hands, bare feet, a hooked beaklike nose...

Geier,
Nick thought. A particularly dangerous Wesen.

The Geier was just picking up a nickel-plated handgun.

At his yell, the two Wesen turned toward Nick—the Blutbad snarled, and the Geier hissed and leaped straight upwards, grabbed the edge of the building, and swung up acrobatically onto the roof.

“Hold it right there!” Hank shouted—and snapped off a shot at the vulturine creature on the roof. The shot went wild and the Geier slipped back into the darkness.

The other Wesen turned toward Nick and hunkered down, ready to charge, in full Blutbad woge.

“Hold your fire, Hank!” Nick yelled. He put away his flashlight and gun and braced for the attack. They needed a live prisoner—someone they could question about The Icy Touch.

The Blutbad leaped at him and Nick jumped neatly to the right, let the Blutbad slam into the car door. Nick spun and aimed a wheeling kick at the creature, catching it in the ribs as the dazed Blutbad straightened up.

The Blutbad staggered under the impact, then got to his feet and launched himself through the air toward Nick.

Nick ducked down, letting the Blutbad pass overhead, then grabbed the creature’s ankles before he’d struck the ground, flipping him over onto his back.

Nick turned and placed his boot on The Icy Touch gangster’s neck.

“Don’t move or I’ll crush your windpipe.”

The Blutbad lay very still and shifted back into human appearance.

“Kind of weirds me out when you move that fast, Nick,” Hank said softly. “I can’t quite see what you’re doing...”

“Are you the Grimm?” the Blutbad asked, voice hoarse.

“Shut up,” Nick said. He drew his gun and pointed it at the Blutbad, lifting his boot off the gangster’s neck. “Turn over on your stomach.”

The thug’s jaw muscles worked, but after a moment he turned over and Nick handcuffed him.

He’d just snapped the cuffs shut and straightened up when he heard the crack of Hank firing his Glock. Something squawked in pain.

Nick turned to see Hank aiming up at the roof.

“Guy up there was pointing his weapon your way, Nick.”

Nick nodded. “Thanks.” He looked up at the roof. “You hit him?”

“Think so.”

“Keep an eye on this one for me?”

“Sure.” Hank came around the car, pointed his gun at the prisoner.

Nick took out his flashlight, and strode over to the figure lying in the shadows by the storefront.

It was Monroe.

Monroe lay on his back, limp, torn, inert. Blood was pooled around him.

“Hank! Monroe’s down over here!” Nick called, rushing to his friend. “We need an ambulance out here fast! And backup around the building! Cars on the street behind it!”

“You got it!” Hank dragged the Blutbad to his feet and shoved him headfirst into the back seat of the car. Then he pulled the hand-radio from his belt and called in a request for backup and an ambulance.

Someone opened the front door of the storefront a crack and peered out, only a sliver of face visible. Nick opened his mouth to tell them to surrender, but the door slammed shut.

“Seems like probable cause to me,” Hank said. “Guns out front. Man down.”

“Hell yeah.”

Nick knelt by Monroe.

“Hey, dude. You still with us?”

No response.

Monroe’s eyes were closed. He was in his default human appearance. The blood had stopped flowing from his wounds but he seemed completely motionless and limp. Nick had a sickening feeling Monroe was close to death.

He sprinted back to the car, and Hank, anticipating him, opened the trunk. Nick grabbed the white plastic first-aid box, and raced back to Monroe. He was half expecting to be shot at from the roof or the front door, but he heard only arguing voices inside the building and, he thought, the sound of a girl sobbing.

He knelt beside Monroe, his knees in Monroe’s blood, and popped the box open. His hands went expertly through the motions, improvising pressure bandages on visible wounds as fast as he could.

When he’d done what he could to stop the bleeding, Nick felt Monroe’s wrist, and thought he detected a faint pulse.

“Come on, Monroe,” Nick murmured, hoping for a response. “Hang out with us here, man. Rosalee’s waiting for you. Don’t bug out on me, man.”

Still no response.

A patrol cruiser roared up and screeched to a halt, two cops jumped out. One of them was Officer Warren, a young black cop Nick knew pretty well.

“Warren! It’s Burkhardt! Over here! Can you stay with Monroe here?”

“Yeah, detective, I got this,” came the reply

Nick stood up. He was so adrenalized and angry that he pushed past Warren, almost knocking him over as he headed to the front door of the storefront.

Nick pocketed the flashlight, drew his side arm, and banged on the front door with the muzzle.

“Police! Open the door!”

Silence.

He tried the doorknob. It was locked.

Nick stepped to the left, in case someone fired through the door, and waited.

Come on, you bastards, open up.

Still no response. Then he thought he heard a scrabbling sound.

“Nick!” Hank called. “Wait up!”

Nick saw that Hank was helping one of the uniformed officers transfer the prisoner to the patrol car.

They’re getting away,
Nick thought.
No time to run around the back. I’m not waiting.

Nick stepped back, raised the gun in readiness, then kicked the door, hard, close to the lock. It smashed open, swinging crookedly inward. He scanned the room beyond it.

No one there.

It was a kind of improvised waiting room, with plastic chairs around the walls, and one lamp, a red-painted door leading beyond.

He stepped inside, swinging his gun to make certain the room was clear.

Nick continued onward to the next door, found it unlocked. He flung it open, revealing a long hallway stretching toward the back of the low building. To the left were four doors, all of them open. He rushed down the hall, gun at the ready, swung it into the nearest doorway, and saw a room with two sets of bunk beds. Empty. There was a girl’s shoe lying on the floor, and a rumpled pair of silk underwear. Nothing else.

He hurried on to the next room, but found nothing but cots, a smell of perfume, and some torn lingerie.

It was the same in the next two rooms. When he emerged from the last room, he saw an open closet across from the doorway—there was a raw earthy smell emanating from it.

He pushed through the door at the end of the hallway. It opened onto a small kitchen. There were liquor bottles on a kitchen table, partly drained. A few Styrofoam cups were scattered on the floor and dishes were piled in the sink.

The back door of the kitchen led to a stairway, up into the taller building behind the storefront. But he doubted they’d gone up there. They’d be trying to get to the street.

Then he saw the blood on the floor: a trail of scarlet splashes leading down a narrow hallway past the stairs.

Heart banging in his chest, mouth dry, Nick strode past the stairway, following the trail of blood toward a door at the back of the mold-reeking hallway. The back door was closed, and locked. He kicked it open and stepped onto a ramshackle back porch.