Grimm - The Icy Touch (6 page)

“Ugh. An ogre. I hate to be prejudiced but... those guys even smell bad. Under bridges or not.”

“Said they needed me to start moving some stuff off a ship for them, into some kind of old tunnel—I guess it was one of those Shanghai tunnels. You know, from back in the day.”

“Those things? They wouldn’t reach all the way out here.”

“They dug part of it out, with a crew of Drang-zorn. You got a cigarette?”

“Nah, I gave up smoking.”

“Smoking, hunting... red meat. We gotta give everything up?”

“I can eat store-bought meat, if I want to. I just gave it up because it helps my recovery, man. And there’s a lot I haven’t given up. I like a good aged single-malt Scotch. I like... well, I’m not a monk, know what I mean?”

“The Drang-zorn—you hear about that one they found cooked, other side of town? Legs sticking up outta some hole in a vacant lot.”

“A badger boy? No. I’m surprised...” He started to say he was surprised Nick hadn’t told him about it. But his friendship with Nick, his consultancy, was something he didn’t want getting around. “No, never heard.
Cooked
you said?”

“Burned—word is, it was a Daemonfeuer.”

“Daemonfeuer! A dragon?”

“They got a few enforcers in town. Stuff that’ll make you sit up and pay attention. Hasslich. Daemonfeuers Couple of rogue Blutbaden, too.”

“Yeah? Who’re the Blutbaden?”

“I don’t know their names. From out of Chicago, I guess.” Smitty cracked his knuckles nervously and looked in the side-view mirror.

“You think they’re out here looking for you?” Monroe asked.

“Looking for me anywhere they can find me.” He sighed. “I need a smoke. And a drink.”

“You wanna come back to my place? We can stop on the way, get you a pack of smokes. I’ll provide the drinks.”

“No, I appreciate it, but... I couldn’t do that to you. You were always a good guy.”

“Whatya mean, ‘do that to me?’”

“They’re after me, man. Because I wouldn’t play ball. They wanted me to smuggle shit for them. And act as guard for the stuff too. Meaning if anyone walks in on it, I’m supposed to go full woge and kill ’em.”

“Really. Who
are
these guys?”

“They call it... I can’t pronounce the French name. In English it’s Icy Touch.”

“Icy Touch. You give that a ring like
La Cosa Nostra.”

“That’s the idea. But they’re Wesen. Most of ’em. Some humans. But the humans work for the Wesen.”

Now it was Monroe’s turn to look nervously in the truck’s side mirror.

“Any chance that ogre knows where you are now?” he asked.

“Doubt it.”

“Kinda surprises me that they kill the uncooperative types with Wesen weapons, teeth and claws and... fiery breath. I mean—you’d think they wouldn’t want to draw that much attention.”

“They’re trying to scare their way into power with the cartels. I hear it’s working. And maybe... they got something else planned. Who knows. Maybe some of them are tired of staying hid. I know I am.”

“I’m just used to it.” Monroe reflected for a moment on the double life he’d lived for so long. It had been a relief to “come out” to Nick and Hank. And, finally, Juliette. They were humans who accepted him as he was. “So—how can I help you, man? No way these guys are going to let me talk them out of trying to recruit you. And no way, to be honest, I’m going to try. I don’t want them to know about me.”

“They probably do know. They seem to know about pretty much every Wesen around. Made it their business to know. They got some Hexenbiest who’s helping them out on that.”

“Hey, that’s just wonderful.”

“So, uh... I was hoping you could get that cop friend of yours to help me. Maybe protect me or... get me outta town or something. I’m broke, haven’t got a car, figure they’ve got people watching the bus. I don’t know what else to do...”

“Dammit! Does
everyone
know I’ve got a friend in Portland PD?”

“Naw. But word gets around. Some
Eisbiber
guy...”

“Oh. Him. Crap. Let me think...” Monroe shook his head. “My friend in the PD’s not a bodyguard. This ogre—you know his name? Where he is?”

“Don’t know where he lives. His name’s Bonfield. Charley Bonfield. People on the street call him Snarfer.”

“Snarfer? Why? Never mind, I don’t want to know. Let me talk to my guy, see what he can do. Can you stall these guys?”

“Naw. I already told them I wouldn’t play ball. They gave me some time to think but... they’ll know, when they see me. You know. Wesen instincts. They’ll know. I’ve been sleeping out here...” He hooked a thumb toward the docks. “Sleeping in a shed, Monroe, on a big coil of cable.”

“Ouch. Okay, bro. Go home, pack your stuff up, I’ll pick you up and, I don’t know, rent a car and loan it to you. You can drop it off for me down south somewhere.”

Smitty gave him a long, grateful look.

“That’s taking a big chance on me. Something happens to that car...”

“I’ll take that chance. Call me when you’re ready, I’ll pick you up. And I’ll see what my friend can do...”

Night on the freeway, wending up through the Willamette Valley. Santiago was feeling nervous. What he had in the trunk of his Toyota Camry could get him twenty years in prison, maybe thirty. But the
Sombra Corazón
had told him this was his load, so he must carry it.

Santiago Mendoza had no love for the
Sombra Corazón.
He hadn’t even wanted to get the tattoo under his right arm. They’d made him. But the “Shadow Heart” made it possible for him to stay in this country. It had made it possible for him to pay his mother’s hospital bills. The gang had paid for this car. And after all, he didn’t have to sell any drugs himself. All he had to do was pick the stuff up, and take the risk of driving it from the laboratories and warehouses in southern Oregon, up to a place south of Portland and another near Seattle. Sometimes it was bricks of marijuana, grown in Humboldt County, in Northern California, warehoused in Southern Oregon. He usually pinched out a gram or so of that for himself. This time it was about ten pounds of yellow-white powder. Probably raw, pure crystal meth. That, he wouldn’t touch. He’d seen what it could do to people.

Another few minutes, and he could drop it off in Canby. There was a farm on the edge of town where the stuff would be cut and redistributed, in an old barn that had once contained numerous doomed pigs and still smelled of it.

His headlights cut through the night and caught the reflective sign he was looking for. There—the exit.

He took the exit, careful not to take it too fast, to always drive smoothly. Do nothing to make a Highway Patrolman stop you.

Santiago drove around the curve, onto the utility road. He continued carefully for another quarter mile south, then turned left onto Strawberry Farm Road. He drove along an old concrete highway through a series of strawberry fields, already harvested, then turned right at the big redwood mailbox. Another short drive down a gravel road, then he was pulling up in front of the big aluminum-sided barn.

He stopped the Camry, feeling relief. They’d have something for him to transport to Seattle but he was glad to have this leg of it over with. He walked toward the partly open barn door, a little yellow light spilled out from inside. It took him a moment to see Juan standing by the door, submachine gun on a strap over his shoulder. The slim but deadly sentry was almost hidden in the shadow, but his glowing cigarette had caught Santiago’s eye.

Juan’s pockmarked face lit up red when he drew on the smoke.

“Que pasa, Juan. Todo bueno?”

“Bueno,”
Juan replied hoarsely, exhaling.

They performed the distinct
Sombra Corazón
handshake and then Santiago stepped into the big room, where a row of men and two women worked at a long metal table in front of the row of old aluminum stalls, cutting the dope. All of them were wearing respirator masks. Another guard stood at the back, a mestizo Santiago didn’t know.

Donny Diaz, the boss of the operation, had his feet up on an old dented, gray steel desk, a bottle of tequila propped in his lap, a glass in his hand. A big wide smile, big black eyes. A sleeveless T-shirt, baring tattooed arms, though it was cold. He waved the bottle at Santiago, offering him a drink.

Donny was not supposed to be drunk right about now. He was a pretty decent guy, and Santiago hoped Donny didn’t get caught by some cartel captain.

Over by the table, Jimmy Hernandez waved and then pulled the goggled mask off his face. He came toward Santiago, smiling, shotgun cradled in his arms, and showed a mouthful of big white teeth under a small black mustache.

“Hey, bro.
Cómo te va?”
Santiago called out.

“Nada, aquí,
man. You deliver?”

“Shit’s in the car, man.
Diez libra.”

Then Santiago realized Jimmy was staring past him, gaping in shock.

Santiago turned, and saw Juan staggering into the room, head hanging half off his neck, spouting blood like a fountain. His submachine gun was gone, his hands were shaking at his sides. Santiago was reminded of one of those zombies you saw in the movies, coming at him all bloody, empty-eyed and lurching. Then Juan fell facedown on the wooden floor at Santiago’s feet, twitching. It looked like Juan’s head had been torn half way off his neck.

“Mierda!”
Santiago swore, backing away from the door.

The big door slid aside, revealing, as it went, one man, then another, and another, until there were five men standing side by side. Three of them were gringos. One Mexicano, one black.

They were clearly not friends of
Sombra Corazón.

Remarkably, only one of them had a weapon—he held Juan’s submachine gun in his hands.

Santiago heard metallic squealing, and a shout, turned to see the mestizo being pulled through the back wall. It had been ripped open from outside, as if the aluminum wall had been as frail as a piece of foil.

Massive clawed hands had thrust through the gap. They gripped the mestizo, wrenching him back through a jagged-edged hole too small for his body. The hole ripped asunder, spurting crimson as the man screamed... and vanished.

A shotgun boomed, and Santiago—taking all this in over a few seconds of paralytic horror—turned to see that it had fired uselessly into the air as someone... some
thing...
thrust Jimmy back to the floor. Was it a werewolf? Something close. Ripping out Jimmy’s throat.

The women at the worktable screamed; the men swore in Spanish.

The other strangers at the door rushed into the room. One, who looked too big to be a human being, his face craggy, ears pointed and tufted, tossed Donny’s desk aside with his left hand, as if it were an empty cardboard box; with his right he grabbed Donny by the throat, lifted him off his feet. Donny gave out a choked, gurgling cry. The tequila bottle fell from his hand, but Santiago didn’t see it break on the floor because he was falling himself, struck in the left side of his head, knocked down by a furry fist. He caught a blurred glimpse of cat-like eyes, whiskers, snarling muzzle, bared tigerish fangs—and then he lost consciousness.

* * *

When Santiago came to himself, he was lying on his back, looking at the dusty peaked ceiling of the old pig barn. His head banged, his left ear throbbed and whistled. He heard the sound of women weeping somewhere. A man was speaking in a low voice.

“Donny Diaz, do you hear me clearly? You understand the Inglés, yeah?”

“We all understand...” came Donny’s voice, thick with fright.

They continued to talk, as Santiago slowly sat up. A buzzing filled his ears, so that he couldn’t hear most of what was being said. Blood trickled from a wound in his scalp; he could feel it running over his left ear. The whole room stank of blood. A lot of it was Jimmy’s, in a reflective scarlet puddle around his body. He lay, staring in death, throat missing. Just an exposed vertebrae, white and pink, between his collarbone and his chin.

Standing over Jimmy’s body was the...

Was
that a werewolf? Almost, but not quite a werewolf. More like one of those men who grew hair all over their faces—Santiago had seen one on the
Ripley’s Believe It or Not
television show. But this one had big fangs, too, and long black claws. He stood straight, and wore a blue suit. The suit looked strange on him. The front of it was heavily stained with blood.

Why wear a suit,
Santiago wondered dazedly,
if you’re going to get it covered in blood?

The wolflike man in the suit was chewing something meditatively, as he watched Donny’s interrogation. A piece of flesh and skin dangled from his mouth, on one side. Santiago could see a little bit of a tattoo on it. The tattoo that had been on Jimmy’s neck.

The creature casually sucked the skin and flesh into its mouth, and swallowed.

Santiago’s stomach rebelled; he doubled over and vomited. The other creatures in the room looked at him. The buzzing gradually simmered down in his ears, so he could hear a little better. The sound of his own retching. Donny saying something like, “We do what you say.”

A man with a face like a cat turned toward Santiago, and gestured with its pawlike hand.

“You—come here.”

Santiago could barely make out the words through the purring growl of the thing’s voice.

“Yes,” Santiago said.
“Si.
I have no guns. Don’t hurt me.”

He forced himself to stand. The room reeled, and then stabilized. He saw two other bodies, a woman lying under the table, her respirator mask down around her bloodied neck; a man lying nearby, goggles spattered inside with blood. Something was hunched over that one, seemed to be sucking at the body’s innards...

The hulking one, standing over Donny, turned to look at him. It was almost as if his face was carved in stone. Like some church gargoyle.

“You...” he rumbled. “You can live—or we’ll eat your flesh for a long time before we kill you. From now on, you serve Icy Touch. Or you die real nasty. You got me? The
Sombra Corazón
—that don’t exist for you no more.”

“Yes,” Santiago said.
“Si. Te lo suplico. Si.
No more. I serve your
banda.
Before God I swear it.”