Grimm: The Chopping Block

by John Passarella

  Though the admission was true, Monroe also thought Decker might have been intimidated by expert instructors, even if the classes they attended had been for beginners. Along with dominance displays, Decker wouldn’t want to feel inferior in any public activity. And lack of knowledge or skill would definitely give him an inferiority complex. Monroe wanted his own attitude about the meditation session to be one of discovery as well.

  “I’ve silenced the house phone and my cell,” Monroe said. “It’s best not to anticipate possible interruptions. So turn off or silence your cell phone and I’ll put it on the table over here with mine.”

  Decker frowned. “What if I miss a call?”

  “Voicemail,” Monroe said. “Whatever it is, it can wait thirty minutes, right?”

  “Probably,” Decker said, pulling out a scuffed-up cell phone and powering it down. “Done!”

  “Great,” Monroe said. “Take off your boots. Pick a mat, sit down and get comfortable. Give me a minute and we can get started.”

  While Decker positioned himself on the left mat, Monroe lit the candle he’d placed on a wall shelf in their line of sight. The lights in the room were already dim, and the electronic music played softly in the background, functioning almost as white noise. Everything ready, Monroe kicked off his loafers and sat cross-legged on the mat next to Decker.

  “Cross your legs, hands clasped in your lap, spine straight,” Monroe instructed, his voice coming out hushed, adapting unconsciously to the environment he’d prepared in the room. He glanced over at Decker, who had mirrored Monroe’s posture, but not without some low grumbling. “Good,” Monroe said once the other man was ready.

  “What now?”

  “Look at the candle flame,” Monroe said. “Focus on that and be still.”

  “Locked and loaded,” Decker said. “What now?”

  “Stay quiet and calm,” Monroe said in a soothing tone. “Quiet… now take deep, measured breaths, in through your nose, out through your mouth… Think only of your breathing. Feel your body expand as you inhale, contract as you exhale.”

  Decker stayed quiet, which felt like progress.

  “Feel the stillness of your body in between breaths.”

  Decker’s breathing fell in rhythm with Monroe’s.

  “Focus on your breathing now,” Monroe said. “Think of nothing else. Only your breathing. Breathe in… and breathe out.”

  Monroe felt the calming effects of meditation descend over him and spoke less and less, focusing on his own breath, breathing in and out, staying in time with Decker’s—

  —snoring!

  “Dude! You fell asleep?”

  Uncrossing his legs, Monroe reached over and shook Decker’s shoulder. Sometime during the breathing exercise, Decker had slumped out of his straight posture position, his head lolling to the side, a thin line of drool dangling from his grizzled chin.

  “Hey! Why’d you wake me?” Decker said, shaking off his lethargy. “That was totally relaxing. I can see why you do this.”

  “That’s not why you—”

  “I’ve never fallen asleep so fast in my life.”

  “Decker, you aren’t supposed to sleep through meditation,” Monroe said. “You’re supposed to clear your mind, let go of stress and anxiety…”

  “Too short for a power nap,” Decker continued, heedless of Monroe’s corrections. “But that’s on you, brother. Woke me too soon.”

  “I give up,” Monroe said, shaking his head.

  “Hey, it was relaxing,” Decker said. “That’s a good thing, right, man? But, you know, some Skynyrd would have kept me stoked.”

  “I should have known,” Monroe said in resignation. “Of course you would fall asleep during meditation.”

  “Listen, this is on me, Monroe. I’ve been keeping late nights, not catching much uninterrupted sleep. It’s an exhausting lifestyle, am I right? This—this naptime thing—was bound to happen. Don’t blame yourself, man.”

  “I don’t,” Monroe said. Only thing I blame myself for is believing any of this had a chance at success, he thought bitterly. “An exhausting lifestyle.” That’s his biggest problem. He doesn’t want to give up that lifestyle. Doesn’t want to change. “Why, Decker?”

  “Why’d I fall asleep? Already explained—”

  “Why do you bother? To try this. Or Pilates. Or t’ai chi.”

  “I wanted to spend some time with an old buddy,” Decker said. “Isn’t that enough?”

  “No,” Monroe said. “This is all too much effort for—for catching up with an old friend.”

  “I wanted to try it on for size, brother,” Decker said. “To see what makes the watchmaker tick—now. I knew, before, back when we ran together. But now? Pure, unadulterated mystery.”

  “So you were… curious?”

  “Yep,” Decker said. “And… I wanted to wrap my head around it. See if I could do what you do. Thought it would be challenging but, man, I had no friggin’ idea. Like crawling over broken glass to cross the road. But this time, with the meditating, I glimpsed it, you know. For a couple minutes, at least, I felt at peace. Then it was gone.”

  “When you fell asleep.”

  “Exactly,” Decker said. He held up a thumb and index finger, an inch apart. “But I made some progress, right? On the road to enlightenment.”

  “I suppose every long journey begins with thinking you’re about to begin a long journey,” Monroe said. “I have an idea. So far, it’s been all about the stick. We should try the carrot first. A meal.”

  “I hate carrots,” Decker said. “That’s the stuff I feed the stuff I eat.”

  “I bought a pair of steaks for us earlier today,” Monroe said. “Terrific veggie steaks.”

  “Those three words should never be so close together.”

  “You’re gonna love these,” Monroe said. “Trust me. Maybe we’ll try round two of meditation after we’ve had something to eat.”

  “Yeah, something,” Decker grumbled. “Say, purely as a backup plan, you got any delivery menus?”

  * * *

  Nick located the address listed at the bottom of the circle-with-triangles flyer. He had to double-check the number because the street address was not prominently displayed outside the Homestead Food Co-op market. With a quarter-folded copy of the flyer in his hand, he wandered through the market, looking for anything unusual, anything that raised a red flag. Not that he expected to find human body parts scattered in the produce section of the store, but if cannibals were involved, a food connection seemed plausible.

  He asked the store manager—a tall woman with gray hair tied in a ponytail, wearing a blue cap with the store name embroidered across it—if the flyer with the store’s address meant anything to her. She nodded.

  “I’ve seen it before.”

  Without another word, she strode down the aisle away from her office, so Nick followed her. For a minute, he thought she was escorting him out of the store, but she stopped near the entrance and turned to face a cluttered corkboard hanging against a glass partition. She reached forward and pushed aside a flyer with tear-off tabs listing a car for sale and another one announcing the formation of a bowling league. Underneath those two, Nick saw several identical circle-and-triangles flyers held to the board with pushpins.

  “Right there,” the manager said. “Saw it before these others covered it.”

  Nick removed one of the flyers and stared at it. Identical.

  No—not identical! The address written below the circle and triangles was different from the address on the flyer he’d brought with him—and the address on the new flyer was not the library’s address.

  “Do you know who posted these?” he asked.

  “Not a clue, Detective,” she said, then chuckled. “Sorry. No pun intended. People come in, tack the stuff up, and leave.”

  “When did you first notice this on the board?”

  She exhaled forcefully. “Maybe… a week ago? No longer. I only noticed because of the parchment paper. Eve
rything else is either plain white paper or neon colors.”

  Nothing helpful, but he had another address to check.

  As he climbed back into his Land Cruiser, he wondered if he’d fallen victim to a prank, someone’s idea of a wild goose chase or a snipe hunt. Possibly, but he had to play along for now.

  Before driving to the new address, Nick texted Monroe the photo he’d taken of the Crawford flyer. Though Captain Renard was unfamiliar with the geometric image, Monroe might have seen it before. If not, he might have some old books or records that explained it.

  If the addresses led nowhere, Nick planned to check Aunt Marie’s trailer. Though most of her journals dealt with the nature of the various types of Wesen, she might have information about the design and its significance, especially if it had been distributed before, which seemed likely. He recalled Crawford’s words: “I participated last time, in Rio. So long ago.”

  So far, he had nothing to show for his efforts. He hoped Hank had had better luck with Crawford’s widow.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  The Crawford residence—traditional English style, dark-gray roof, white siding—stood at the back of a circular, tree-lined driveway, on a three-acre lot, isolated from road noise and curious neighbors. A separate driveway led to the three-car garage. Propped on his crutches, Hank rang the doorbell and admired the almost-rustic surroundings. From certain viewing angles, the house seemed totally isolated from those nearby.

  Crawford’s widow—an attractive woman who introduced herself as Ellen after Hank flashed his detective’s shield—invited him inside. After meeting her in person, Hank decided the photo on Crawford’s desk had been taken recently. He guessed her age—late forties to early fifties—at twenty years younger than her husband’s, although his advanced illness had done his appearance no favors.

  Ellen Crawford led him through the open, airy house to an expansive living room with hardwood floors, a wide bay window and a large walnut fireplace inset with white marble highlights. A glass-and-steel square coffee table, the design reminiscent of the desks at LC Leasing, occupied the center of the room, its harsh style softened by a pale-blue throw rug centered between a light-gray sofa and two armchairs.

  “Please sit, Detective,” Ellen Crawford said. “Can I get you anything?”

  Hank sat in the armchair that faced the hallway that led from the foyer to the living room. Crawford had been involved in something shady and Hank had come alone, so he wanted a clear line of sight if someone else approached. Propping his crutches against the side of the chair, he shook his head.

  “Mrs. Crawford, I’m afraid I have bad news,” he began.

  “What sort of—? Oh, no! Has something happened to Lamar?” She sat on the sofa, leaning forward, knees pressed together, her hands worriedly clutching the material of her dress. “Some kind of accident?”

  “No, he—”

  “His illness? Is he in the hospital?”

  “What do you know about his illness?” Hank said. “And his treatments?”

  “Cancer,” she said with a curt nod. But then the floodgates opened on her repressed concern. “It had spread through his body and hadn’t responded to any traditional treatment. He had contacted… specialists—alternative practitioners—about some sort of progressive treatment—he wouldn’t give me details. Honestly, I thought he was making it up, lying so I wouldn’t give up hope. He said he’d keep the details to himself so I wouldn’t worry. But I knew insurance wouldn’t cover it. And he said it might be dangerous, but that he had no other options. Did he have—some sort of reaction, a side effect?”

  She spoke so quickly, Hank had a hard time interrupting her.

  “I don’t think any of it helped,” she continued. “He would have brief spurts of energy, but nothing…”

  “He never told you the names of the alternative practitioners?”

  She shook her head quickly. “Some of the… ingredients might have been illegally imported. He said they could get in trouble—that he could get in trouble—but he wanted to protect me. Have you—was he arrested?”

  “No, ma’am,” Hank said. “Your husband… I’m afraid he took his own life.”

  “Wh—what? No!” She made fists and pressed them against her mouth so hard her knuckles turned white. Then, her body trembling, she gasped for air. “Why? Oh, my God, what happened?”

  “I’m so sorry for your loss.”

  “Mom?”

  The son, who looked about fifteen years old, hurried down the hallway, rushed to his mother and stood beside her at the sofa. She clutched his hands in hers, sobbing as she pulled him down beside her.

  “Kurt, it’s your father… he’s… he…”

  “He what?” Kurt asked. “He’s—he died?”

  “Yes, Kurt. He… took his own life.”

  “Mrs. Crawford, your husband took his life to protect you and your son.”

  “You were there? When it happened?”

  “Yes,” Hank said. “My partner and I were questioning him”—Hank took out his phone and displayed a photo of the flyer—“about this flyer? Does this mean anything to you?”

  She looked at the image on the phone briefly and shook her head. Leaning past her to check it out, Kurt frowned and dropped his chin to his chest.

  “What is it?” Ellen asked.

  “That’s what we need to find out,” Hank said. “The people associated with that flyer scared your husband so much that he took his own life so they wouldn’t come after you and your son.”

  “This makes no sense,” Ellen said, her voice raw from choking back sobs. “Lamar was deathly ill. He… he probably only had a month or two left. Why would he do this? Without—without saying goodbye.”

  “We need to find the people responsible,” Hank said. “Could your husband have kept records here, in the house? On a computer? Or a Rolodex? Something with the names, addresses or phone numbers of the so-called specialists?”

  Head hanging low, one hand clutching at the fabric of her dress, the other clutching her son’s hand spasmodically, she spoke in a strained whisper.

  “No computer records. No written records. No recordings. He said he couldn’t have any evidence here. To protect us from prosecution. And it was all for nothing…”

  Hank fought to overcome the feeling of intruding on the family’s grief. He remained respectfully silent as Ellen Crawford tried to control her emotions. Beside her, her son throttled his own reactions, but a single tear slipped down the side of his cheek. Then Kurt stood up and ran out of the room.

  After he left, Ellen looked up at Hank, her eyes red-rimmed, and said, “How?”

  “How?”

  “How did he…?”

  “Gun,” Hank said. “Hidden in a desk drawer. It happened so fast, we couldn’t…”

  Hank chose to spare her the details of the actual suicide, but wanted her to know that he would have stopped it if he’d had the chance. It seemed obvious that he would have intervened, but by telling her that much, she would know her husband hadn’t suffered.

  Grabbing his crutches, he lurched upright and caught his balance.

  “I wanted you to know before word got out,” Hank said. “You’ll need to go down to the Medical Examiner’s Office”—he avoided using the word “morgue,” which felt too raw—“to identify him.”

  She nodded.

  “We want to catch these guys,” Hank repeated. “If you find anything, or remember anything about them, give me a call.”

  He handed her his card, which she placed carefully on the glass coffee table, almost as if it were fragile.

  “I’ll see you out,” she said.

  “Again, I’m sorry for your loss.”

  As Hank navigated the few steps leading down to the driveway, he couldn’t help wondering if mother and son were both Geiers as well. If so, Nick would have seen them woge during their emotional outbursts. Though Hank knew of the Wesen, they remained, for the most part, undetectable by him, as a normal human. Unknown un
less they chose to reveal their nature. They hid in plain sight. And when Hank dwelled on that simple fact too much, he had to admit that it spun the needle on the creepy meter up into the red zone.

  Human or Wesen, though, the Crawfords had to deal with all-too-common grief.

  * * *

  Ellen Crawford stood by the front door, clutching a wad of tissues to her red, runny nose, and waited until the detective had exited their driveway. Then she took a deep breath and exhaled forcefully.

  “Those bastards!” she exclaimed.

  “Mom?” Kurt came out of the kitchen after she’d closed the front door and stood beside her.

  Without looking over her shoulder, she reached back toward him with one hand, which he clasped and squeezed.

  “We knew he didn’t have long,” she said. “But they shouldn’t have put him at risk of exposure.”

  “He said it was his only chance,” Kurt said, his eyes red and swollen. “That it might be dangerous. But he shouldn’t have banned us. It was our right to participate.”

  “They lied to him,” she said bitterly, and woged briefly into her Geier form. “Took advantage of his desperation. They made him do their dirty work. And forced him to…”

  Kurt took a step forward and hugged her.

  “I never wanted to participate,” Ellen said thoughtfully. “So I didn’t argue with him.” Finally, she looked over her shoulder at him, and saw some of Lamar’s determination in his eyes. “But now? Now I wouldn’t mind knowing all about it.”

  “He can’t stop us now.” Kurt woged briefly.

  “No, Kurt,” she said. “Not alone. It’s too dangerous.”

  “I know,” Kurt said softly, disengaging from the hug to walk back into the kitchen, several papers clutched in his hand.

  Lamar had wanted to protect them. And she would keep Kurt safe. Her son had agreed with her, but perhaps too readily. She recalled the steely glint of resolve in his eyes and shuddered.

  * * *

  The address on the flyer from the Homestead Food Co-op’s bulletin board led Nick to Portland First National Bank, close to six miles away. As soon as he saw the table in the outer lobby, riddled with flyers and business cards, he knew what to expect. Five copies of the circle-and-triangles flyer were stacked on the left back corner of the table.