Kessler ducked as a bullet smashed through his windshield, hissing just overhead. Then the officer fired once more, and a tire exploded. His car spun out of control, and thudded into something. He glimpsed the Gestapo officer who’d fired at him flying through the air, struck by the car.
The touring car struck the sidewalk and stopped, radiator spouting steam.
Kessler jumped out, pulling the Luger from his coat. He swung it toward the Gestapo car—but the officer was already at the wheel, starting the vehicle. Kessler fired, striking the car over and over, emptying the Luger, but none of the bullets penetrated to the driver.
Still clutching the gun, Kessler ran clumsily through the snow, toward the car—but the Gestapo officer chose to make certain that the package Herr Rudolf Hess had been waiting for was taken to him, even if it meant letting Kessler escape.
The black car roared away, taking the Coins of Zakynthos with it. As it turned a corner, Kessler noticed the swastika painted neatly on its side.
He stared after it. Shame twisted in his belly like a dirty blood-soaked rag.
I failed, Kessler thought. I was a fool. I should have killed Berg when I shot the other two.
He turned, hurried across the street, passing the now still corpse of Berg, and the dying, groaning SS soldier. Skidding in snow, he ran to the corner and around it, then slowed. Up ahead, a heavy man wearing a taxi driver’s cap was just leaving the beer hall, walking to his cab, wiping his mouth.
Kessler called out to him.
“Taxi! I am in a hurry!” He forced himself to smile at the man as he waved.
The taxi driver shook his head.
“No, I am going home now!”
“I will give you four times your normal fee and a tip to boot if you take me where I’m going. But you must drive as fast as you can!”
“Speed will be difficult with the snow on the streets but... very well, sir!”
Five minutes later, Kessler was sitting in the back of the taxi, half listening to the driver’s inane chatter as they bumped and skidded along. So far there’d been no pursuit. At some point in the next hour the Gestapo would organize a search for him, but by then he would be undercover, and on his way out of town. There were certain well-paid, trustworthy men who did jobs for Grimms, sometimes. Those men would help him escape from the city. With luck he would be safely away. But his failure would go with him, like an unwanted travel companion.
I should have shot Berg and yet—he was a fellow Grimm. My instinct was to preserve another Grimm. He and I should have been brothers.
Brothers? Berg had betrayed all Grimms—for money! Simply for money. And what would happen now?
Hess knew about the coins, clearly. Berg would have confirmed the story, in making the deal to sell them.
Rudolf Hess would likely give the coins to his adored Führer.
Adolf Hitler would have the Coins of Zakynthos.
And where would that take the world?
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Juliette marched into the cabin ahead of Hank.
“Monroe—where’s Nick?” she demanded.
Monroe winced.
“Hi Monroe, how are you feeling? might be a little more appropriate here, Juliette,” he said, as he shifted uncomfortably in his easy chair.
“Monroe, she’s worried,” Hank said, closing the door behind them.
“I’m sorry, Juliette,” Rosalee said. “He’s a bit cranky. He’s stopped taking the painkillers.”
“I don’t need the pills anymore,” Monroe said. But it was true he was feeling on edge. “I’m sorry, Hank’s right, I’m out of line. I don’t know where Nick is, Juliette. I’m kinda mad at him because he said we’d work together to find Lily and then he vanished on me. You up to speed on Lily?”
“Nick told me some, and Hank told me the rest,” Juliette replied. She stared at the floor as she unbuttoned her coat, as though trying to hide how worried she was.
Rosalee took Juliette’s coat.
“Let me hang this up. You and Hank sit down, we’ll have some coffee and figure this out.”
Juliette went to the sofa, started to sit—then stopped as an automaton on the mantle, shaped like Pinocchio, turned its head to look at her with glassy eyes. She sank slowly onto the sofa, staring at the toddler-sized automaton.
“Did that thing just look at me?” she asked.
“Oh yeah, sorry, should’ve warned you,” Monroe said. “Beautiful machines. He’s put motion sensors on them, so that they look at you when you move. ‘He’ being the guy whose cabin this is... Just ignore Pinocchio and friends. They’re very discreet. They listen but they don’t talk.”
“They listen?” Hank said, sitting beside Juliette. “Great. Makes me feel comfortable.” He accepted a cup of coffee from Rosalee. “Thanks. So no one’s heard from Nick?”
They each shook their heads in turn. Hank put the coffee down.
“That’s... I don’t want to scare you, Juliette.”
“I’m already scared. I know something’s wrong.”
“Feels that way to me,” Hank admitted. “He’d be in touch with one of us. Or at least the Captain—but the Captain hasn’t heard from him either. Suspended or not, Nick’s still a police detective. There’s no way he’s going to be out of touch with us.”
“Hard to believe he wouldn’t call Juliette,” Rosalee said.
Monroe sighed. “He seemed really sincere when he said he was going to work with me on this. He’s always returned my calls when we...” He broke off, seeing the effect all this was having on Juliette.
Juliette’s eyes were bright with unshed tears.
“Hank—do you think he’s dead?”
“No. No, I don’t. The Icy Touch would’ve left his body somewhere as a message. That’s their whole style.”
Juliette squeezed her eyes shut.
“Then they have him prisoner?”
Rosalee sat on the sofa’s arm, put a hand on Juliette’s shoulder.
“He’s a Grimm. He’s survived... so much. He’ll be alright.”
“Thing is, Juliette,” Monroe said slowly, “I really, really think you and Hank ought to bunk here with us for a few days. We’re off the grid enough they won’t find us easily, if we don’t do anything dumb. We have an extra bedroom here. Hank can sleep on the sofa.”
Hank looked at Monroe.
“You saying Juliette’s in danger?”
“I... don’t know. Don’t want to scare anyone. But they must be pissed off about you and Nick getting in their way. These guys are the dark side of Wesen, pure and simple. They’re going to hurt you and Nick any way they can. My advice, Hank—get out there and do your job but... might be smarter not to sleep at home for a while. And Juliette should stay here for sure.”
“I have tomorrow off,” Juliette said, wiping her eyes. “But after that I have to be back at work.”
Monroe shrugged. “Maybe... But I mean, if it’s not all... uh... worked out by then... see if someone can cover for you. I’m not saying it won’t be, you know...”
Noticing Rosalee glaring at him, Monroe shut up.
Juliette accepted a tissue from Rosalee, dabbed at her nose, and looked around the room at the other automatons perching on tables and shelves around the room. A Santa Claus nodded and stroked its beard; a red-nosed old babushka chuckled and lifted a laundry bag onto her shoulder; an American Indian sat on a horse—both the horse and the Indian turned to look at Juliette.
Juliette laughed and shook her head.
“Good luck sleeping in this room, Hank.”
Hank snorted. “For real.”
She sighed. “Nick told me about the kidnapping, the little girl, how he lost his... his temper. How he questioned that man and got suspended and... I knew he was still holding something back.”
Hank cleared his throat. “Maybe he didn’t want to talk about the Grimm thing. There are sides of being a Grimm he doesn’t necessarily have control of yet.”
“He should have tol
d me! He should have trusted me.” Unconsciously, Juliette shredded the tissue between trembling fingers. “It took him so long to tell me about being a Grimm—about Wesen. It wasn’t right for him to keep it from me. I was scared—things were happening that I just did not understand. I thought I was going crazy.”
Monroe nodded. “I hear you. We should have told you... I should’ve said something, but Wesen are trained to keep it on the lowdown.”
“It wasn’t your fault, Monroe,” Juliette said firmly. “It was Nick’s. He just didn’t trust me.”
Hank sipped his coffee, then said, “I think he was afraid you’d leave him. His being part of the Grimm world—that could be a pretty big deal breaker, for a lot of women.”
Monroe laughed dryly. “Ohhhh yeah! As in ‘I’m a Grimm, I kill creatures out of Grimm’s Fairy Tales, so be my Valentine.’ Yep. Could so be a deal breaker.”
Juliette shook her head. “I would have stood by him. I did, when he finally told me. But it took him so long. Now he’s hiding things from me again. That—just might be the deal breaker...”
* * *
Nick had decided he could get more leverage on the sink than the toilet.
He had broken it partway off the wall, pushing the sink a little at a time, with all his strength. It made a squealing noise with every push. Eventually some sentry would check on him and hear the noise. He had to get this done fast.
He could see the pipes in the back, and one of them was already leaking water around the join. If he could get the water flowing and the pipes broken enough to cut flesh...
Nick gave the small sink another strong heave, summoning more strength, and with a creaking wrench the main pipe snapped off. Water gushed onto the floor— and the edge of the broken pipe looked sharp.
He pressed the back of his left arm against the broken edge of the sink’s pipe, and began sawing it back and forth. After about ten seconds, the blood started to flow.
He kept sawing.
It hurt. It hurt a lot.
* * *
Chance Weems felt like this Nicholas Burkhardt was his prisoner, as much as anyone’s, and he was going to make sure no one screwed up and let the Grimm get over on them. He owed that to his son Jody, who had been killed by Burkhardt’s mother.
And Weems had far more experience with Grimms than the others did. He knew they could be more dangerous than they looked. Faster. More deadly.
So Weems was appalled when he got down to the cell in the basement and found the sentry was gone from the door.
“What the hell!” Weems burst out, as the young Hundjager, Roger, came around the corner, shotgun in hand, whistling to himself.
“Where the hell have you been, you damned fool?” Weems demanded.
“Whatya mean?” the young man retorted sullenly. “He can’t get through those walls or that steel door. Boss said I could go for a dinner break, so I did. He said a half hour, I’m back in half an hour!”
“Denswoz said you could go off without there being someone to replace you? Then he’s a fool too!”
“You better not let him hear you say that,” Roger said, looking over his shoulder.
“You were supposed to get someone to spell you.” Weems nodded at the cell holding the Grimm. “You hear anything from him?”
Roger shrugged. “One time he sounded like he was going kinda out of his gourd. Said he was going to kill himself if we didn’t let him out. I just laughed at him. I told the boss about it, said not to believe a word the Grimm says.”
“Wouldn’t bother me if he killed himself. Then I could feast on him all the sooner. Denswoz better keep his promise.”
Weems noticed Roger looking intently at the bottom of the steel door.
“There some kind of flood?” the sentry asked.
Weems looked. The low horizontal space they used to push a food trays in was bubbling with water.
“This ain’t good. You better...” But when he saw the blood it startled him into a momentary silence. The unmistakable red liquid was swirling with the water, and there was quite a bit of it. The blood was running out from the cell, under the door, and onto the stone flags of the corridor...
“You go get the boss,” Weems said. “I’ll keep an eye on this.”
“Oh shit. I hope nobody blames me if he’s dead. Boss’ll be mad. He wanted that guy kept alive till he was ready for him. We’re still waiting for people for the party.”
“Just go get the... Dammit Roger, what are you doing?”
Roger had stretched his key out on the chain that attached it to his belt. To Weems’ amazement he was unlocking the door.
“Don’t—!” Weems said.
But Roger swung the door open and stepped back, pointing the muzzle of his shotgun toward the cell.
“It’s okay, I got it covered. Safety’s off, gun’s loaded.”
Weems shook his head. He drew his pistol—he was still carrying the Smith and Wesson they’d taken off the Grimm—and moved to follow Roger into the cell. He had to admit, he was curious himself...
The Grimm was lying on his back to one side of the fallen, cracked sink. There was blood all over Burkhardt’s neck and wrists. His arms were flung out, and he seemed limp, his chest motionless, eyes closed. His mouth, trailing blood, was slightly open. Blood-streaked water bubbled and flowed around him.
“Look at that!” Roger said. “He’s dead! He must’ve cut his throat on that busted piece of metal!”
“If you’d a been here you’d have heard him busting that washstand down!”
“I did hear something—but I figured the guy was having a tantrum, kicking the walls or something.”
Roger went in for a closer look.
Then Weems noticed the cot. The wooden frame had been pulled apart, the lumber twisted free of the bolts.
Wait. Oh no...
“Boy, stay back—” Weems warned.
But Roger was already bending over the body of the Grimm. And then Weems spotted the sharply broken-off piece of wood, about the length of a baseball bat, lying next to the Grimm’s outstretched arm.
“Get back!” Weems yelled.
He tried to bring the pistol into play but Roger was in the way—and then there was a blur of motion, and the Grimm had thrust the spear of broken frame up, angling it past Roger’s ribs and into his heart.
Roger screamed and, half impaled, twisted to fall on his side, writhing on the wood as he died.
Weems stepped to the left and snapped off a shot. But the bullet struck the wall just above Burkhardt as the Grimm pulled the shotgun from the dead sentry’s nerveless fingers.
Weems stepped back and tried to aim—but the Grimm was fast, just too fast.
It was almost as if the shotgun, when it went off, was silent. But the truth was, Weems just never heard it blow his brains out.
* * *
Nick was hoping the noise of the pistol and the shotgun wouldn’t carry past the thick walls. But the door to his cell was open. The Icy Touch Wesen could be coming.
He picked up his Smith and Wesson, stuck it in his waistband, and then turned to the still gushing water pipe, bending over to thrust his cut forearm under the water, trying to clean the wounds a little. The long shallow cuts he’d made had produced enough blood to spread around his body for a good theatrical effect—and enough to run under the door with the water, getting their attention. But the cuts weren’t severe enough to do him much harm.
He straightened up, pumped another shell into the shotgun, stepped over the bodies to the door. He stopped at the threshold, and glanced back. Two bloody bodies, water flooding around them. Entrails dangling from the younger one, drifting like seaweed in the outflow from the broken sink.
Quite a mess.
He stepped into the hall and listened. He heard no voices, no sound of anyone coming. He’d had the impression the cell was in a subbasement, under a large building. Maybe it was deep enough down they hadn’t heard him. Especially if there were intervening doors. He returned to the
cell, carefully leaned the shotgun against the wall, and removed the keys from the younger Hundjager’s body. Not a pleasant task, but there was a whole ring of keys. That could prove useful. He was surprised to find no cell phone on the sentry.
He turned to Weems, searched him for a cell phone. He didn’t have one either. Must be that Denswoz restricted them, when the men were out here. Information hygiene in all things.
Nick pulled the old Hundjager’s jacket and shirt off, and stuffed them into the broken pipe end where the sink had been. It took some adjusting, but he got it plugged up pretty well, stopping the water flow.
He went back to Weems’ body.
“Sorry, Weems, don’t like to be disrespectful to the dead, but...”
Nick pulled the dead man’s pants off, and used them to wipe up the floor outside the door as best he could. Then he tossed the wet, bloodied pants inside, retrieved the shotgun, and went into the hall. He locked the cell door, hoping another sentry might not look inside before taking up his post. The guy would be standing sentry over two dead men.
Nick started slowly up the stone stairs, under naked light bulbs in the ceiling, going as quietly as he could. His shoes and socks were wet, and water dripped down his back.
He climbed six steps, stopped and listened, then went up to the next flight. He listened again. Then he moved on. Two more flights, the rest of the way to the closed steel door at the top of the curved stone staircase.
Nick pressed his ear to the cold metal of the door. He heard nothing. He tried the handle. Locked.
He got the keys from his pocket, looked at the lock, and tried the most likely one. It turned easily.
He gradually opened the heavy steel door, stopping to listen with each small movement. Now he could hear voices, down to his right, too far off to be intelligible. Someone laughing; someone else making a remark.
He peered round the doorway. At the far end of the hall a little light spilled out from a partly open door. They were probably in there.
The voices didn’t indicate any alarm. Apparently the thick walls and steel doors had muffled the gunshots.
Nick stepped into the wood-floored hallway; a Persian-style carpet runner went its length. There were pastoral paintings on the walls, and elegant amber-colored light fixtures on the ceiling. He turned, quickly locked the cellar door, then moved down the hall to the left, away from the voices he’d heard. He wanted to keep moving until he was away from whoever was talking behind him.
Grimm - The Icy Touch Page 21
