Grimm - The Icy Touch (5 page)

“The Hasslich...” The name struck a chill through Nick. It was an organization that existed only to kill Grimms. “Great.”

“Grimms aren’t an Icy Touch priority, especially now,” Renard said. “They’ve got some other agenda. I keep reading between the lines on FBI reports, and Interpol—I suspect it’s gone Wesen.”

Hank snorted. “The feds know about Wesen?”

Renard shook his head. “They don’t have a clue what they’re dealing with. They just know Icy Touch is a growing organized crime outfit making a big move. Extortion, drugs, sex slavery, major stolen goods. But Icy Touch is Wesen—and they could have a much bigger agenda than just cashing in on crime.”

“How many of them are there?” Nick asked.

“Don’t know. More than I’d thought, judging by these reports. Looks like they’re making a move on Portland. I’m putting you two on it, so start digging. But report only to me. Keep your mouths shut—and your heads down...”

A misty dusk. Monroe stood on his front porch and sniffed the October air.

Across the street was Forest Park, 5,100 acres of wildness on the west edge of Portland, where shadows were gathering like flocks of dark birds. The sun was going down beyond the park; the line of firs and deciduous trees broke up the reddening sunlight into a trembling coinage of scarlet-gold. Forest Park, his second home.

Monroe inhaled deeply, taking in the woodland’s damp exhalation, parsing the scents with a clarity an ordinary human could only dream of.

Exquisite.

Overtop were the distinct fragrances of evergreens, western red cedar, Douglas fir, western yew, grand fir, all mingled with the decay-rich scents of fallen leaves from black cottonwood, bigleaf maple, red alder; piquant notes of wild blackberries and salmonberries struck through like thorns on a vine. He scented dozens of varieties of mushrooms and tree fungus; he caught the smells of Oregon Grape, trillium, Morning Glory and... Hooker’s Fairy Bells. That one made him smile.

Fairy bells.
Grimm’s fairy bells? In the back of his mind Monroe wondered what Nick was doing today.

Then the lower notes of living fauna rolled over him and he inhaled again to savor them: the Northern flying squirrel; the acrid smells of birds; the sharp tang of frogs and salamanders in Audubon Pond. He caught the rank odor of a fat old raccoon; the distinct rodent aroma of a creeping vole. There—the scent of black-tailed deer. That one made his mouth water. Imagine tasting it freshly killed...

No. You’re a vegetarian. For a reason.

But he sniffed again. He could smell scat—guano from bats, droppings from possum and bobcat... and there, the smell of marijuana. Probably someone harvesting it. There were a number of hidden marijuana patches in Forest Park. He chuckled. Smelled like strong stuff.

He could see birds in the foliage, from where he stood: flitting, foraging. There, a woodpecker, getting its evening meal as it paused in climbing bark, drum-rolled its beak into an oak; there, an orange-crowned warbler, heading for its nest; there, a great horned owl, swooping between trees, hunting for a delicious mouse to start off its evening.

Unconsciously, Monroe licked his lips.

Vegetarian, Monroe. It’s part of your recovery program. “Hi, I’m Monroe, I’m a predator...”

He had to stay with his program. He was a
Wieder Blutbad
now. But still—he ached to just dive into the forest at random, get deep inside it and then let loose; just woge and explore... and hunt. It’d be sublime to take Rosalee there. She was a
Fuchsbau
Wesen. A fox-woman. She could relate to his urge to plunge into the woods; to take off his shoes and run through the trees in full-on woge. Foxes loved to stalk as much as wolves did.

Rosalee. Was it crazy for him, a Blutbad, to be involved with a Fuchsbau? Like he cared. But if they had kids would the children be hybrid chimera? He wasn’t entirely sure. At some point he’d have to talk it over with her. Right now he couldn’t imagine breeding with any other woman, Wesen or human. If not for his long, happy history of living alone, making his house exactly the den he wanted it to be, he’d have asked her to move in with him by now. Eventually, when he was ready for the Big Commitment, he’d have to face up to her natural female desire to redesign the den the way she’d want—fewer clocks, maybe. She might say no to moving in with him, of course. But he doubted it. She was crazy about him. Which made perfect sense. At last. He’d always been puzzled that so many other women had failed to be crazy about him, after Angelina... Dating had been rough until Rosalee...

The shadows deepened in the vast park across the street. They called to him. Another cool exhalation rolled across him, the woods giving out moisture, and fresh oxygen, cooling as the sun set.

Come, Monroe,
the forest murmured.
Come, Blutbad. Run. Howl. Feed. Full moon tonight, Monroe. Vegetarian? Don’t be silly. That’s not what you need! I’ve got what you need. What you hunger for...

Monroe sighed, shook his head, and turned away, going quickly into the house.

Not going out there, not tonight. I’m not feral, I’m domesticated, now, and that’s a
good
thing. Gotta hold onto it, for Rosalee’s sake and for Nick and for the Perkins family and... just for me.

He couldn’t run free, not anymore, not like that. Not since that day he and Angelina stumbled on the ranger...

He shuddered, and his stomach lurched at the memory. The ticking of his clocks reassured him. He went quickly to his workbench. Working on restoring an old Swiss pocket watch—that was his refuge. It consumed his full attention to tinker with clockwork, to find the heart and soul of the mechanism and bring it to life. There was no room for restlessness, or temptation. Clockwork was soothing; so much simpler than organic life...

Ridiculous,
he thought, to think of clockwork mechanisms as alive at all. But secretly, that was how he felt.

He picked up the jeweler’s loupe, held it over the mechanism, peered through it.
Mainspring needs adjusting.
He reached for a tool...

And then his cell phone rang.

Nick had made him get rid of the howling beast ringtone—he’d gotten Howling Wolf instead.
“That’s evil, evil is goin’ on wrong...”
sang Wolf’s gravelly voice.

Monroe cursed under his breath. Wanted to be left alone right now.

But then again, it might be Nick—or better yet, Rosalee. He suddenly felt like answering. Didn’t even look at the number.

“Yo, it’s Monroe.”

“Monroe?” The man’s voice was husky, familiar—and hesitant. “It’s Smitty.”

“Smitty! My man! How are you, bro?”

“Um—been better.”

“Uh-oh. You have a little relapse? Listen, relapse is part of recovery.”

Smitty was Blutbad, like Monroe, and one of the first Monroe had met as an adult. And like Monroe, Smitty was in recovery from “over indulgence”, as Monroe liked to put it. Which was his polite term for going crazy bloodthirsty feral.

“Listen, uh—I know you’re busy, Monroe, but...”

“You want to talk, bro, I want to listen.”

“Could I see you in person? Rather not talk on the... I’d just rather talk in person. Right away.”

“Huh. Yeah, okay. You were there for me, going back, man. Where you want to meet?”

“How about... Marine Terminal 2—on Northwest Front. Right outside the main gate to the docks.”

“Out in all that industrial stuff? Sure, okay. Will I be able to find you, out there?”

“I know your truck, man. I’ll see you.”

“When?”

“Soon as possible. I’m in trouble, Monroe. So... soon as possible. Thanks, man. I owe you.”

And he hung up.

* * *

Hank walked up to the desk with the take-out.

“They didn’t have the sweet and sour chicken,” he said, sitting in the chair across from Nick. “I got you that prawn thing you like instead.”

“It’s all good,” Nick said distractedly, turning the page on the report. He glanced at his watch as Hank pushed the cartons of Chinese food over to him.

“Almost seven p.m,” Hank said. “Another dinner at the precinct. Hell, you shouldn’t be here, you got someone prettier to have dinner with.”

“Prettier than you? Come to think of it, she is.” Nick hadn’t heard from Juliette that evening. But they hadn’t had a date for dinner. He’d just been kind of hoping she’d invite him over. She worked late at the veterinary clinic, sometimes. Maybe that was it. Or maybe she was just brooding about whether or not she could trust him. They were back together—and then again, they weren’t.

“So, to review...” Hank prompted, as he spooned broccoli beef from his carton.

“To review,” Nick said, “the cartel’s based in France, Marseilles.”

“Ah. Good old Marseilles. Happy home to many a criminal concern.”

“Yeah. Maybe they figure that’s protective coloration. The Wesen organization is camouflaged by the human ones. Around there they call it
La Caresse Glacée.
Meaning touch of ice, or the icy touch. Rumor has a guy named Denswoz running it. Another rumor here says he’s just the American boss. Just rumors.”

Denswoz.

Something about the name made the hair stand up on the back of Nick’s neck. Had he heard his mother mention the name, once?

“What other places they known to get down and dirty?” Hank asked, reaching for his coffee.

“Uh... Germany, Argentina, Russia, Mexico... America. More rumors say they’ve chosen Portland as their West Coast headquarters.”

“Why Portland?”

“No one knows. Shipping, maybe?”

“Any local names?”

“One guy arrested. Died in jail. Found slashed up.”

“Slashed up. Like, with a knife?”

“Coroner says more like...” Nick read the report aloud. “‘Possible weapon: multi-pronged gardening implement.’”

“Garden implement. In prison?”

Nick shrugged. “Or maybe... claws.”

Hank stopped eating, and looked at him.

“Claws. Wesen again.”

“Could be. Fits with other reports of Icy Touch victims—people who didn’t want to be extorted, didn’t want to pay up—didn’t want to work for them. Bodies slashed, multiple wounds. Some found burned same way as Buddy Clement. One with his guts melted out of him...”

“Like that thing, what was it...” Hank glanced around to see if anyone else in the office were listening. No one was nearby.

“Spinnetod.
Spider people.”

Hank grimaced. “I hate that one.”

“Lot of people with bite marks attributed to attack dogs. But...”

“Could be Blutbad.”

Nick nodded. “Or
Schakal.
Jackal people.”

“Sounds like they’re using Wesen to terrorize people. Scarier than a thug with a gun.”

“Using Wesen... maybe. But there’s so much of it— could be they are Wesen.”

“Yeah. You want to check out that warehouse Buddy was supposed to be digging up?”

“Oh—sorry, should’ve shown you this.” He handed Hank a two-page report. “Renard sent a team over there. Some indication that a tunnel was begun, and abandoned. Like they found out the department was interested. What’s interesting is the place doesn’t warehouse finished pills. It’s only ingredients—chemicals, hormones, enzymes, everything that goes into big pharma medicine. Like they wanted a steady, quiet supply of something... Could be a lot of stuff.”

“Morphine, something like that?”

“Maybe. Or maybe something else. Something a
Hexenbiest
might combine with traditional herbs, maybe...”

“You just guessing?”

“Just... a hunch.”

Hank let out a long breath.

“I’ve learned to trust your hunches. And I don’t like the sound of that one. You want some broccoli beef?”

* * *

The road to the Marine Terminal was a lonely one after dark. Monroe drove just under the speed limit, not wanting to accidentally drive past Smitty. There was no traffic, no one to honk at him to hurry up. A few lights shone coldly from a big container ship at the river dock, beyond the hurricane fence. Enormous industrial cranes for lifting multi-ton shipping containers stood poised like dinosaur skeletons over the dock; a freight train clunked and chugged slowly down a confluence of tracks, between the road and the river, carrying a load of intermodal containers and tanktainers.

Up ahead was the turn-in for the dock. The silhouette of a man was just visible against the closed gate. Monroe turned carefully into the drive, and pulled up. Smitty hurried to his passenger side, opened the door and climbed in.

“There’s a river park, not far away,” Smitty said, pointing farther down the road. “Let’s go there, sit in the parking lot.”

“Sure.”

Monroe put the truck in reverse and glanced over at Smitty. His friend was a broad-shouldered, heavyset guy with a ragged beard, he wore a plaid coat. But there were circles under his worried eyes and he looked more haggard than Monroe had ever seen him.

Monroe pulled onto the road, heading toward the park.

“You look kinda like crap, bro.”

“Not getting much sleep.”

“Sleep’s important. I can’t sleep, I get outta bed, go to the fireplace, chuck a log on there, curl up on the rug with a pillow. Pretend I’m camping. Usually slip into dreamland. But I get cramps in my neck the next day.”

Smitty didn’t answer, so Monroe kept quiet till they got to the park, and he’d pulled up in the empty parking lot. He switched off the engine, and the lights. They looked out toward the river. The park was flat, green, with little stubs of recently planted trees. Not much of interest.

“Nobody ever goes to this park,” Smitty remarked. “There’s your tax dollars at work.”

“What happened, Smitty? We talking about a relapse?”

“Naw. Could’ve been one. They’d like that. They want me to relapse.”

“They who, man?”

“They came around when I was working in crane maintenance.” Smitty nodded toward the big cranes, over by the river. “I was replacing the lights on ’em, and greasing. Guy walks up to me and says, ‘Hey, Blutbad. I hear you gave it up.’”

“Just some random guy you don’t know?”

“Yeah. But he made sure I got to know him. He was a
Siegbarste.”