“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...”
CHAPTER FOUR
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... something... 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 d
esk 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.”
He did not want to be eaten. Especially not eaten alive.
Maybe this is a dream, a nightmare, he thought. Then he looked down at his own vomit, and then over at the shining pool of syrup-thick scarlet around Jimmy. He knew it was no dream. This was real. The espiritu bestia of legend must be real. His uncle had told him stories of them and Santiago had not believed. But they had returned, and they were reclaiming the world...
“Si,” he said again, retching. “Si. Si...”
CHAPTER FIVE
“Nick? You awake? This is Monroe.”
“I know it’s Monroe, dammit. What time is it?” Nick sat up, saw that Juliette had already gotten up. She had an operation on a golden retriever scheduled early
“Six-thirtyish in the morning. Okay, six-fifteen... Sorry about that, Nick. I totally knew something had happened when I woke up and realized I hadn’t heard from Smitty—”
“Wait, who’s Smitty?”
“You didn’t get my message?”
Nick turned on a light by his bed. It was still mostly dark outside.
“No. I haven’t checked voicemail since I went to bed, naturally.”
“About a Wesen, in danger, a Blutbad, Smitty...”
Nick rubbed his eyes. “What can I do for you at six-fifteen in the morning on my only day off, Monroe?”
“It’s this outfit, The Icy Touch, he—”
“Wait. You said Icy Touch?”
“That’s what he—”
“Hold it. Just... wait.” Nick thought about it. “Monroe? You at home?”
“Yeah.”
“Wait there, I’m gonna come and pick you up.”
* * *
“Not only on your day off, but this early, damn,” Hank said, as Nick got into the car.
“Just drive,” Nick said, putting his coffee in the cup holder. “Monroe’s place.”
Hank ran the windshield wipers for a few swipes, then turned them off. The rain was just stopping.
“Man, you’re nearly as bossy as Renard.” He drove the Crown Victoria onto the street. “Look at you, Mr. Up-at-Seven-Thirty-on-His-Day-Off.”
“Not my idea. Monroe’s. Looks like I’m working on my day off too. He’s got an Icy Touch connection. Friend of his...”
“Yeah? Wesen?”
“Blutbaden. What’s up with this ride? No clown car?”
“Hey, nothing to stop me from checking out an unmarked car, is there?”
“Good thought. Funny they use these Crown Victorias as unmarked cars. They look so damn much like cop cars even without the lights. Because they are police cars, almost everywhere. Stupid.”
“Stupid? Police department planning? Is that possible?”
Nick laughed and sipped his coffee.
When they got there, Monroe was waiting out front in the drizzle. He had a watch cap on his head; rings under his eyes.
“Monroe looks more tired than you,” Hank remarked.
Monroe got in the back, passing Hank a slip of paper with the address.
“Thanks for this, you guys,” he said.
“You’re helping us,” Hank said. “I mean, if this really has an Icy Touch connection. But don’t let anyone know we’re checking them out, will you?”
“Me?” Monroe sounded offended. “When have I ever been big mouthed, y’know, talking out of school, all that?”
Nick turned and stared at him.
“Well, okay, a little, but...”
It was about half an hour to Smitty’s place, with the early morning traffic. Nick’s stomach was starting to react against coffee, more coffee, and nothing else, when Hank pulled up in front of the apartment building.
It was the grungy sort of place built on the cheap in the early seventies, big and blocky, with a vague modern look, covered in gawdy red and yellow paint. The landscaping around the front was overgrown with weeds. A grimy concrete donkey, once part of the landscaping, seemed trapped in the overgrowth.
“He’s second floor,” Monroe muttered, jumping out of the car before Hank had turned the engine off.
Hank and Nick climbed out and followed him through the open gate into a courtyard, up pebbled concrete steps to the row of apartments along the second-floor balcony.
Monroe knocked on Number 27. They waited. No answer.
Monroe got out his cell phone, tapped a redial.
“Come on, Smitty, answer...” he murmured.
They could hear a phone ringing inside.
“He got a landline?” Hank asked.
Monroe shook his head. “Don�
�t think so. He wasn’t even staying here—he was in a damn shed over by the Marine Terminal. But he came back here to get his stuff this morning... and he was supposed to call me...”
The phone rang, and rang. Monroe shook his head and hung up.
Nick peered at the door, examining the lock. It seemed bent out.
“Hank—that look like it was jimmied or... something?”
Hank leaned forward to take a closer look.
“Or something,” he agreed.
Nick shoved the door—and it swung open. The lock, he saw now, had been snapped. That was probable cause for police entry. So was the trail of blood inside the front door.
“Looks like he tried to stop them coming in,” Hank said, as he drew his side arm and entered.
Nick pulled out his own gun, gestured for Monroe to wait outside.
Nick followed Hank into the dank hallway and from there into the living room.
Seconds later Monroe rushed in behind him.
He stared in horror at the blood on the carpet, the blood splashed on the television screen, the blood on the wall. For a moment Nick got a psychic glimpse of the Blutbad’s face, complete with fur, animal eyes and fangs, his Wesen form revealed by anxiety. At this stage Monroe’s Blutbad appearance would be invisible to anyone but a Grimm or a Wesen. It vanished as Monroe pointed at the door which must be the bedroom.
“You guys—go! I can’t...”
Nick gripped his 9 mm Glock, and followed Hank to the bedroom.
Hank pushed the door open. The remains of the body were spread all around the room. Parts of it were stuck to the walls. A man’s head was set up on a pillow, on the bed, without the rest of the corpse. The victim’s eyes stared at the ceiling, looking as if he’d just awakened without his body. It seemed someone had left it there as some kind of morbid joke.
A fly buzzed over the dead man’s mouth. The room smelled heavily of blood, feces, sweat, and death.
The claw marks on the face were clear-cut. The man’s torso, lying on the floor chest down, was clawed up, his clothes shredded.
Nick squatted down—at his feet was a man’s arm, and hand. The hand clutched a hank of fur—orange-golden fur, with a little black in it. Like a jaguar’s.
Grimm - The Icy Touch Page 5
