He went into his files, looked at the information he’d taken from the last time he’d seen his second cousin in Paris. Where was the code? There it was, in both English and French: “C’est très jolie après the wind musses your hair.” Franglais. Nonsense.
He opened his cell phone, and sent her the message as a text.
Then he sipped tea, nibbled scones, and waited.
Just as he was about to call the department to check on major cases, his phone chimed:
“Oui, pour l’éternité,” the message said.
He activated the webcam on his computer, and the encryption program. Then he spoke, “Beatrice. Encryption.”
He waited.
Another full minute. Then Beatrice’s face appeared in a window on his monitor. Her dark blond hair was up in fringe braids and her skin was the color of a well-stirred latte; she had her mother’s almost catlike green eyes; she wore a diamond stud in one nostril, and her luscious lower lip was also pierced. She was a lawyer, an assistant prosecutor in Paris—and a Hexenbiest. Even on webcam she looked enticing. It was strange, when she woged from this beauty to Hexenbiest “deformity”. But perhaps even stranger, Renard reflected, was the fact that a Hexenbiest couldn’t see anything deformed in the contorted witch manifestation. To Renard and other Hexenbiesten, both appearances were beautiful, seductive.
“Sean! It’s good to see you,” she said in French. “Are you well?”
“Yes and no. Your transmission is fully encrypted?”
“Yes, of course.” She sighed with comic theatricality. “I hoped you were calling to flirt with me, but I doubt you would bother to concern yourself about encryption for flirtation.”
He smiled. They were cousins but that hadn’t stopped them having a fling, five years back. And it had been intense—until their intimacy had been discouraged by the Royals.
“Why do you think I live way over here, Beatrice? It’s safer with an ocean and a continent between us. I have only so much willpower.”
She laughed. “I’ll pretend to believe that bullshit.”
“You feel comfortable speaking freely about those friends of yours you told me about?”
“Gegengewicht... ?” She gave a French lilt to the German term for the secretive Wesen organization that worked beyond the reach of the Verrat and the Royals.
“The same.”
She nodded. “What’s happened?”
“You know about The Icy Touch?”
Beatrice hesitated, a hesitation prolonged even more by intercontinental lag.
“I’ve heard. Rumors. Some say they are Wesen.”
“I can see they’ve got even you spooked.”
“Even me? Lots of people!”
“And the Verrat? They don’t think this cartel could be destabilizing for Wesen, to say the least?”
She gave her best Gallic shrug. “They seem to be in denial that Wesen are significantly involved. Some of them don’t believe the cartel exists. Some of them... I don’t know.”
“You think there are Icy Touch agents infiltrating the Verrat?”
“If Icy Touch is indeed a Wesen organization—I suspect it. We haven’t confirmed they are Wesen. They’re very secretive. And any time that secrecy seems threatened...”
“Someone disappears or someone dies.”
“Or both. What have you found out, Sean? We need to know. If the rumors are true, then Wesen of conscience need to stop The Icy Touch—but the Verrat won’t move. And this is exactly why Gegengewicht was created! Philippe knew this sort of thing was coming. There are hints that the crime cartel is just the beginning. That it’s just a way to finance a bigger agenda.”
“I wondered about that.”
“There’s something else—did you know that the Coins of Zakynthos have once more been stolen?”
A sick chill went through Renard.
“No. I didn’t know that.” That news gave him a dizzying mixture of feelings. He’d been addicted to the coins, at one point, and altered by them. He had found himself going megalomaniacal, intoning veiled threats in a news conference, under their influence. He’d been relieved when the coins had been taken from him... and at the same time he’d felt wounded at their loss.
“They were in a safety-deposit box,” Beatrice said. “Someone in the bank... we think someone under the influence of a Hexenbiest drug... may have taken them.”
“A Hexenbiest drug. Soul Sealant?”
“Seele Dichtungsmittel, yes.”
“We believe Icy Touch is using it right here in Portland. They’re using scopolamine—that’s not necessarily Hexenbiest. But there are herbs in it associated with Hexenbiest potions.”
“Still—that’s not proof. But if La Caresse Glacée is using the Sealant...” She shook her head, and nervously licked her piercing. “That’s very bad. And if they also have the coins...”
Renard nodded. “Exactly. Does your organization have any documentation on The Icy Touch? I mean—not just rumors, or police records. But... anything internal? Something with names?”
“We have exactly one piece. A letter. A man calling himself Poigne Fermé. Not a real name obviously. We think it’s a name he used when helping form La Caresse Glacée— but we’re not sure this is about The Icy Touch. We only suspect it. We have a scan of a... it’s something like a memo. All their communications since have been encrypted, or destroyed after reading, so far as we can find out.”
“Can I see this memo?”
“I’ll have to ask Philippe.”
Philippe. Renard had never met the alleged leader of Gegengewicht; he didn’t even know his last name. After a few glasses of wine Beatrice had once hinted that Philippe was a Blutbad who had some sort of religious conviction— and out of this conviction came a belief that not only were Wesen to be protected from humanity, but good Wesen must protect ordinary humans from the darker Wesen. He had been known to work with certain Grimms, it was said, but didn’t trust most of them.
And Philippe, the putative head of Gegengewicht, was as hard to find in person as anyone from The Icy Touch.
“Will I ever meet this Philippe?” Renard asked.
“That depends. Do you wish to join Gegengewicht?”
Renard chuckled. “I think not.”
He had so many entanglements with the Royals and Verrat he could hardly swear loyalty to an organization that was so shadowy and independent from them.
“But... perhaps your Philippe, and your other associates... perhaps we can all help one another. A temporary alliance. You could speak to them for me.”
“Would you give your word that any interaction with us is confidential to the point of, well...”
“You’re not going to go all thirty-third degree Freemason on me, are you?”
She smiled. “We aren’t Masons. They don’t even know we exist. But... we do swear oaths upon fear of death. As the highest levels of Masonry do.”
What was one more oath? He’d sworn many. This was already life or death. In time, The Icy Touch would come for Sean Renard, and they would not care that he was a police captain. They would “invite” him to join them— and they would not take no for an answer. He had to destroy them before they destroyed Portland—and before they destroyed him.
He nodded. “Record my oath, and show it to Philippe. And speak for me. I have known all this time about Gegengewicht. I never went to the Verrat or the Royals with the information.”
“Philippe would say, not that we know of! But very well. I am recording.”
“I, Sean Renard, on pain of death, swear that my alliance with Gegengewicht will be discreet, that nothing I learn about Gegengewicht will be placed in the public record, offered to police authorities, given to the Verrat— or to any of the Seven Families.”
She nodded briskly. “Good. I will consult with him right away, if he is available...”
She broke the connection, and he waited.
He ate a little more, drank tea, and waited. He stared at his cell phone, then the compu
ter. Still no response.
After forty minutes his patience gave out. He considered calling her back, but decided not to. Instead he showered, shaved, dressed, and drove to police headquarters, arriving just after seven. He had been at his desk for ten minutes when he got her text.
It’s coming encrypted. Can you access, where you are?
He responded in the affirmative.
Will send as attachment. Destroy utterly after reading. Use tagged computer cleanse.
Within a minute, he received an encrypted attachment on his work email. He decrypted it. It was in French. He read it swiftly.
My Wesen Brothers and Sisters
We are reborn. We are reborn in our renewed determination. We are reborn in our renewed vision. We are reborn in ruthlessness in the service of our kind. We of dualistic biological nature are more than Homo sapiens; we are twice human. We are twice in power, twice in soul, twice in sapience. Our senses are keener, our loyalties deeper.
The time of global reckoning is nearly at hand. The time of righteous revenge comes as surely as a storm sweeps across the sea.
We will need all our strength, all our objectivity. We are badly outnumbered. But other resources can be ours: Infiltration, and gold.
Infiltration will in time give us information and the safety of camouflage. Gold will buy weapons; gold buys politicians; gold buys power.
Gold buys an army.
We cannot wait. There is no time for conventional economics.
We will take what we need. We will sell addictive poisons to Homo sapiens; we will sell their children; we will twist their arms and wring gold from their clenched fists...
We must be willing to do whatever it takes.
I am your brother. I am,
Poigne Fermé
Renard sat back, stunned by the boldness of it. Gold buys an army?
He almost felt drawn to the thing himself...
He chuckled and shook his head. He had chosen another course. He would go his own way.
But there was only a reputed connection between The Icy Touch and this Poigne Fermé.
If this the memo was about The Icy Touch, then it was imperative that they be stopped at any cost. Because what The Icy Touch intended would destroy either humanity— or all Wesen. And blood would run in the streets.
Pondering, Renard looked out the window of his office, saw Sergeant Wu striding past. Wu nodded to him; Renard nodded back.
Then Renard made up his mind. He sent a quick encrypted email to Beatrice.
Going to need more help, when things come to a head. Gegengewicht in USA?
After a few minutes, she responded.
Yes, some of us in USA too. But as to more help— under advisement. I am told: “Perhaps and perhaps not.” We need more data, proof that The Icy Touch is truly Wesen and as widespread as you say. The memo does not directly refer to The Icy Touch. May not indicate that The Icy Touch is truly dark Wesen.
Renard grunted. Proof? Could he risk sending them internal police reports? And the FBI data that Bloom had given him? If he was found out, he could be prosecuted...
Anyway, there was no proof in those reports that The Icy Touch were Wesen.
But without Gegengewicht who could stop The Icy Touch? The feds? They knew too little about what was going on. And for the sake of decent Wesen the feds had to be kept in the dark.
Round here, there was only himself, really, unless you counted that annoying Blutbad, Monroe. And then there were non-Wesen. Like Hank Griffin...
And one relatively inexperienced Grimm...
* * *
Nick jogged along the gray sidewalk, under gray skies. As he ran, he glanced repeatedly over his shoulder, half expecting a van to pull up, maybe with a window rolled down. Some Icy Touch sharpshooter suddenly firing out the window...
He was on suspension, now. There was no Hank to cover him. He wasn’t even sure he could call for back up. And he didn’t have his police-issued Glock on him. He had a Smith and Wesson at home, of his own—and a concealed carry permit. Maybe he should...
His cell phone rang, just as he drew up in front of his house. Breathing hard, he looked at the screen. He didn’t recognize the number, but answered anyway.
“Burkhardt.”
“Mr. Nicholas Burkhardt?” came a rather crusty voice. Sounded like an elderly man.
“Nick Burkhardt, yeah. Who’s this?”
“Nicholas, my name is Chance Weems. I was a friend of your father, Reed, and your mother, Kelly.”
Nick blinked. “Weems? I... I don’t remembering hearing the name...”
But then again, he hadn’t heard that much from his parents. He’d been raised mostly by his Aunt Marie after the car accident that killed his father—the accident that appeared, for a time, to have also killed his mother...
“Nicholas—I have information about your father and mother that you should know. Vital information.”
Nick hesitated. Who was this guy? He could be working for some enemy of his mom’s.
“What information would that be, Mr. Weems?”
“I am not at liberty to say on the phone, Nicholas. You know that your father and I used to fly kites together?”
Nick was startled. Nick had flown kites with his father as a small boy. Dad had been a member of a kite-flying club. Not many would likely know that.
Still—why should he take a chance on this, right now? It could easily be a set up.
“I’m not sure I’m comfortable meeting you, right now, Mr. Weems. My life is in kind of a holding pattern. I’m dealing with some issues at work. I can give you my office email...”
“No emails, Nicholas. This has to be in person.”
“Then it’ll have to wait.” Nick glanced up and down the street—and saw an old white van coming slowly his way.
Lots of those kinds of vans in town. It was nothing.
But all the same he went quickly inside the house, still talking on his cell phone.
“And—let’s say just say, Mr. Weems...”
Nick closed the front door, looked through the blinds. The van drove by, a long-haired guy at the wheel bobbing his head, singing along to something on the radio.
“Let’s just say I’m avoiding situations where there are a lot of unknowns.”
“We can meet in a public place. There’s a roadhouse, out on the Columbia. Place called ‘Joey’s River Snag.’ Do you know it?”
“I’ve driven past it. That’s a ways out of town...”
“If you’re worried about problems here in town— might be safer there.”
“I didn’t say I was worried about...” He blew a long breath out between parted lips. “Okay. But... I’m going to need a little more to go on here, Mr. Weems.”
“I have information about how your father died.”
“I’m pretty sure I have a handle on that.”
Who was this guy? Another Grimm?
“You only know part of the story, Nicholas. Tonight, Joey’s River Snag. Let’s say eight o’clock. They have a fine venison stew there. You’re buying.”
Weems cut the connection.
Nick frowned, and headed upstairs. Before hitting the shower, he went to get his personal handgun from the dresser drawer. He took the Smith and Wesson out, and laid it on the bathroom counter by the sink, close to the shower door.
Keeping the gun in reach of the shower? I’m getting seriously paranoid.
He was just pulling off his sweatshirt when the phone clipped to his sweatpants chimed again. He saw the office number, and answered it.
“Captain? Internal Affairs make up its mind?” he said.
“Not yet, Detective. Just a second...” He could hear Renard get up, close his office door. His voice, almost a whisper, he said, “The coins. They’ve been taken again.”
“The coins? Oh. You mean... our coins?”
The Coins of Zakynthos.
“That’s right. We don’t know who’s got them, but there’s reason to believe it might be
The Icy Touch.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
“I’m just—I’m getting antsy, that’s all.”
“Everyone gets antsy when they’re convalescing, Monroe.”
“I’m not convalescing, Rosalee. I’m fine, just a little... Kinda...”
“A little cranky, is what you are, besides still wounded. And you’re convalescing till the doctor and I say you aren’t.”
Drinking cocoa, bundled in coats and sweaters, they reclined in lounge chairs on a redwood porch hoping the late afternoon drizzle would let up.
“It was almost sunny, about three,” Monroe groused. “I thought for sure the clouds were going to bust out with some sun. But then the sky says, ‘Naw, let’s give ’em some more drizzle.’”
They were staying at a friend’s vacation cabin out east of Portland. Monroe’s pal Carson was a fellow fanatic about clockwork, and, in Monroe’s terminology, “all things that go clickety click.” Carson was more about clockwork dolls and automatons; the cabin was eerie with machines that turned their heads and watched you whether or not you wound them up—Carson had them set up with motion detectors to scare burglars.
“Am I ever going to meet Carson?” Rosalee asked.
“Well, not right away,” Monroe said, leaning forward to squint at the sky beyond the porch roof. “Carson doesn’t even know we’re here.”
“Monroe!”
“It’s okay, he gave me a key, said anytime I wanted to go out here it’s cool with him. I don’t have to ask permission. He’s down in San Francisco half the time anyway. That’s where his main collection is.”
She frowned, and he could tell she wanted to head him off from talking about clockworks.
“Is he Wesen?” she asked.
“Yep. He’s Eisbiber.”
“Oh, I like Eisbiber! They’re sweet.”
“I’m sure they’d like to show you how sweet they can be.”
She laughed. “I’m not into them that way. I’m more of a Blutbad girl.”
He looked at her with his eyebrows raised.
“You sure you wouldn’t just up and give me the old heave-ho for a hot Fuchsbau dude? I mean—what would your family say if you told them you were dating a Blutbad?”
Grimm - The Icy Touch Page 18
