Grimm: The Chopping Block

by John Passarella

  “If these flyers are the invitation,” Nick reasoned, “the guests need to find the banquet. But each address leads to one of the other addresses. And none of them are the banquet location.”

  “They’re a set,” Monroe said. “You need all four.”

  “That’s why I marked the locations on the map.”

  “And you made a red rectangle,” Monroe said, “and a blue—kinda—circle.”

  “I thought maybe the circle matched the circle drawn on the flyers,” Nick said. “Converting it to the map and the open-chair triangle as the location.”

  “What’s at that location?”

  “Near as I can tell,” Nick said. “A soccer field.”

  “So, unless it’s underground,” Monroe said. “Probably not a cannibal resort.”

  “No,” Nick said. Moving the circle from the flyer to the map had seemed like a good idea at the time, but it led nowhere.

  “I remember reading something about the invitation,” Monroe said, walking around to the far side of the table and picking up some of the old books and journals he’d been checking for details on the Silver Plate Society. He had a series of sticky notes attached to more than a dozen pages. He leafed through two books before opening one of a more recent vintage. “Here it is. ‘When Open Chair arrives, make your invitation and partake in our feast.’” He looked at Nick and shook his head. “I thought the open chair was the invitation.”

  Nick looked at the map for a moment.

  “I’ve been focusing too much on the information we lacked—or thought we lacked—rather than on what we know.”

  Monroe returned to Nick’s side of the table. “You have an idea?”

  Nick took the red marker out of his jacket pocket.

  “This rectangle…” he said as he uncapped the marker. “If you connect the four points, top left to bottom right and top right to bottom left—” Nick drew an X inside the rectangle “—it sort of looks like the folds of paper on the back of an envelope. An invitation.”

  Monroe tapped the intersection of the two lines. “And ‘X’ marks the spot.”

  Examining the nearest cross streets on the map, Nick said, “I know that place. There’s an old shopping center there. And a used car lot on the other side of the street.”

  Monroe was shaking his head as Nick talked.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “They’d want something more refined, Nick. Something secluded and maybe a bit scenic. That place is low-rent commercial. Probably an eyesore.”

  They stood together in silence, Nick conscious of the ticking clock. Each minute that passed put Hank at greater risk. They had no idea what time the ‘tight chain’ feast would begin. Once they started cutting into Hank with knives and claws—Nick couldn’t let it get that far.

  “What are we missing?” Nick wondered aloud.

  The Leeren Stuhl was planned to bring nonmembers to the feast. Nonmembers were on the outside, looking in. They would need to figure out how to get to the damn feast.

  The flyers held the answer—they had to.

  Each flyer led to the location of another. The four addresses had to show the way. A complicated code would defeat the purpose of the open invitation. If it was too hard to figure out, nobody outside the inner circle would come. And they had gone to a lot of effort to spread the flyers around town, hiring a hooded and gloved man to run around and put them in place.

  “It’s there,” Nick said, pointing at the X. “It’s the only thing that makes sense.”

  Monroe jumped on his computer and brought up a mapping site, zooming in on the location marked by the center of the X and then accessing photographic street views. Rotating the street view through the full 360 degrees, he confirmed Nick’s memory of a shopping center and a used car lot, along with a bowling alley and an audio equipment store. Nothing remotely upscale.

  “No way, Nick. Not here.”

  Nick looked over his shoulder. He noticed a bus stop shelter near the intersection.

  “That’s it!”

  “No, man, I’m telling you, these guys are into upscale—”

  “Not the banquet,” Nick said. “A pickup point.”

  Monroe thought about it for a moment. “Ah… a chauffeur! That makes sense.”

  “But how?” Nick wondered. “How do they contact the chauffeur? No phone number on the flyers.”

  “Not how,” Monroe said. “When.”

  “Same problem,” Nick said. “Or does it run every thirty minutes, like a shuttle at Disney World?”

  Monroe picked up one of the flyers. “The open chair location on the circle,” Monroe said. “It’s not southwest. The circle doesn’t represent a compass. It’s a clock face.”

  “Which would make it… seven o’clock.”

  “Picked up at seven,” Monroe said. “Dinner wouldn’t be until eight o’clock. Maybe later. But not before.”

  “Hank has until eight o’clock.”

  “Not that we’d want to cut it that close,” Monroe said. “Okay, ‘cut’ was a poor word choice, but yeah, eight o’clock is a safe bet.”

  Nick checked the time and experienced a stab of anxiety, bordering on panic. Hours wasted with so little time left before Hank became the main course at a cannibal party.

  “That gives us less than an hour to get in position for the pickup.”

  “Us?”

  “Well, you,” Nick said. “I assume the invitation is Wesen-only.”

  “Me?”

  “Yes, you’re accepting the Leeren Stuhl invitation.” Off Monroe’s panicked expression, Nick added, “Don’t worry. You don’t have to eat any flesh. And I’ll be following you all the way—at a discreet distance.”

  “Okay, sure,” Monroe said nervously. “Absolutely nothing could go wrong with that plan.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  With a nervous Monroe in tow, Nick stopped at Juliette’s house to pick up Hank’s belongings, where he’d left them after the crime scene team finished with them. Juliette heard him pull up and greeted him at the door with a kiss, then trailed after him as he purposefully crossed the room. Her coat still on, pocketbook on the sofa, she must have arrived moments before him.

  “Good, you’re here,” she said brightly. “I left a couple messages. I finally got us reservations at Escapade, that new restaurant I’ve been wanting to… Nick, what’s wrong?”

  “I’m sorry, Juliette,” Nick said. “Tonight’s no good.”

  “Tell me,” she said, touching his arm. “I want to help—are those Hank’s crutches?”

  Nick had stood the crutches in the corner, and placed Hank’s sidearm, shield and personal effects in a large manila envelope in a drawer, which he recovered, checked and closed again.

  “Hank’s in trouble.”

  “Did he fall? Is he in the hospital?” she asked, placing herself in front of him. Ever since she learned about his responsibilities as a Grimm and about the existence of Wesen, she refused to be left out of any conversations on those subjects. She’d been kept in the dark so long, she was determined not to let it happen again and create a gulf between them. “Did he reinjure his heel?”

  “No,” Nick said. “It’s worse than that. Much worse.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Monroe’s in the car,” Nick said. “Captain Renard is meeting us here.”

  “Where is Hank?”

  Nick sighed. He’d told Juliette the answers to all of her questions but there were some details about Wesen culture—the consumption of human flesh and harvesting of human organs—that remained unknown to her. And sometimes truth was best absorbed in small doses. She’d been accepting about everything in his Grimm life so far, but could she handle knowing about Wesen cannibal dinner parties? He thought it prudent to save a full explanation for when time wasn’t so critical.

  “Hank’s been abducted.”

  “What? Who? I mean how—why?”

  Setting down Hank’s stuff, Nick caught her upper arms in his hands, a
calming gesture.

  “We’ve been working the bare bones murders,” Nick said, proceeding cautiously.

  “Yes, I know,” she said. “I’ve been following the news reports about the two sites with shallow graves. It’s awful.”

  “Hank got too close to the perps—the people involved.”

  “There’s more than one killer?” Juliette asked, startled.

  “We don’t know,” Nick said. “But we suspect others are covering up the murders.”

  “And they’re Wesen?”

  “Yes, definitely.”

  A car horn beeped outside. Renard.

  “Is Hank—? Have they—?”

  “We think Hank is alive—for now. But we need to act fast,” Nick said and gathered Hank’s items. “Gotta go. But I’ll explain everything later.”

  “Call me!” she said, following him to the door. “As soon as you know Hank’s safe, call me!”

  Nick promised to call her and nodded to Renard who stood waiting beside Nick’s Land Cruiser. Obviously they couldn’t involve Wu in a Wesen takedown. But at some point, they might need to call in reinforcements. For now, to ensure Hank’s survival, they had to approach the cannibal Wesen discreetly.

  Nick slid the crutches into the back seat with Monroe, who still hadn’t warmed to the idea of going undercover with a secret society of Wesen cannibals. Not by a longshot.

  Renard rode shotgun and Nick took the driver’s seat, tossing the manila envelope on the corner of the dashboard. Nick checked the clock.

  “We should arrive ten to fifteen minutes before the pickup.”

  “You’re sure about the place and the time?” Renard asked.

  “Hope so,” Nick said. “Hank’s life depends on it.”

  * * *

  Traffic cooperated. They arrived fourteen minutes before the scheduled pickup time, assuming the open chair position on the circle represented 7:00 p.m.

  Nick parked on the street, outside the strip mall parking lot, with an excellent line of sight in every direction. They expected somebody to pick up the Wesen who had accepted the invitation, but the mode of transportation remained a mystery. A stretch limousine would look garishly out of place in the rundown commercial district. But the Wesen driver could easily pull up in a taxi or an airport shuttle, even an old school bus, without attracting undue attention.

  Monroe had remained quiet during the drive, but after Nick parked the Land Cruiser he became agitated, sighing and scrubbing his moustache and light beard with an open palm.

  “Nick, I want to help. I do. I consider Hank my friend too. I’m just saying, with your captain here, don’t you think he might make a better guest at this banquet—and a much better undercover operative? Experience has to count for something—oh, no offense, Captain. I was referring to your police experience, not cannibal experience.”

  “No offense taken,” Renard said, scanning left and right, mirroring Nick’s vigilance.

  “Won’t work,” Nick said, without taking his attention away from the road. “Captain Renard is too high profile. After the televised press conferences this week, his face has been all over the airwaves in Portland. Too risky.”

  “Right—you’re absolutely right,” Monroe said. “Okay. It’s fine. I can do this.”

  “You can do this,” Nick said. “We’ve gone over it. You’re prepared. Take the ride. Stay calm. We’ll follow you to the site.”

  “Okay. I’m ready.”

  Nick passed folded copies of the flyers over his shoulder to Monroe.

  “In case they ask how you found them.”

  “Right,” Monroe said nervously.

  “Wait, I recognize that woman,” Nick said, pointing toward the corner of the intersection. A middle-aged female walked beside a teenage boy. “From the photo on Crawford’s desk. That’s his wife, Ellen, and her son, Kurt.”

  “They’re headed toward the white van near the bus stop,” Renard said.

  “Hank’s neighbor noticed a plumber’s van near his house last night.”

  “This one’s plain white,” Renard said. “Ford Econoline. Already parked there when we pulled up.”

  Monroe watched the woman and her son, followed the direction of their path toward the waiting van.

  “Hmm,” Monroe said. “That looks familiar.”

  Ellen Crawford and her son stopped beside the driver’s side door. The driver turned toward them expectantly. Mother and son woged briefly, revealing Geier features to their driver. At the same moment, the driver woged, displaying a fierce Blutbad visage before reverting back.

  “Oh, no!” Monroe said, gripping the back of Nick’s seat. “This is not good.”

  “What?” Nick asked.

  “The driver,” Monroe said. “That’s Decker.”

  Nick stared, leaning forward over the steering wheel, trying to catch a better glimpse of the driver.

  “You’re right. It’s him.”

  “Who’s Decker?” Renard asked.

  “Monroe’s friend,” Nick said.

  “Old friend,” Monroe said. “From another time in my life.” He looked at Nick, alarmed. “What now? Nick, he knows me! I can’t go through with this.”

  Renard shifted in his seat to face Nick directly.

  “Are we overlooking the obvious here?” he asked. “Arrest Decker. Force him to take us to the location. Even if that requires putting a gun to his head.”

  “Too risky,” Nick said, shaking his head. “Hank has an hour, two at the outside. If Decker calls our bluff, Hank dies and the Silver Plate Society scatters in the wind. Lost for twenty-five years.”

  “Who said I was bluffing?” Renard’s jaw was set, unwilling to compromise, but unable to refute Nick’s logic. And killing Decker meant losing any chance of finding Hank in time.

  “Nick’s right,” Monroe said. “This society has stayed secret, its members hidden, for hundreds of years. We can’t risk Hank’s life on the slim chance that Decker will cooperate. Knowing him as I do, I doubt he’d talk. He’s more likely to dig in his heels and enjoy the challenge of frustrating us until it’s too late.” He heaved a resigned sigh. “Unfortunately, I am the best option.”

  He stepped out of the SUV, brushed the creases out of his trousers, patted the pockets of his cable-knit sweater and nodded.

  “Okay, I’m ready.”

  Nick leaned out of the window. “Are you sure about this, Monroe?” he asked, concerned for his Wesen friend. The plan hadn’t changed, but the risk level had. An anonymous ride as an open invitation guest had seemed simple enough. But with Decker involved, Monroe was no longer anonymous. “We could wait and follow the van without you.”

  “We talked about this,” Monroe said. “If I’m on the van and you lose it, I can find a way to call you once I arrive at the location. If I’m not on the van and you lose it, you lose Hank. And any chance of stopping the Silver Plate Society for at least twenty-five years.”

  “But he knows you,” Nick said. “He knows you’re reformed. You’re the last Wesen who’d want to attend this… party. You’ll have to convince him you’ve…”

  “Fallen off the wagon,” Monroe finished. “It happens, Nick.”

  “Yes, but can you sell it?”

  “Let me worry about that.”

  He’s right, Nick thought. They had no other choice. Either Monroe convinced his old friend that he’d lapsed in his reformed lifestyle or they would have to roll the dice with Renard’s suggestion, a gun to Decker’s head. Given both options, Nick had more faith in Monroe’s gambit.

  “Good luck,” Nick said. “We’ll be right behind you.”

  “Not too close,” Monroe said. “If he spots the tail…”

  No need to finish that statement. Hank’s life depended on Decker driving the van to the banquet site. Any delay or misdirection on his part and Hank would pay the ultimate price.

  As Monroe walked casually toward the white van, Nick glanced at the dashboard clock. Two minutes to seven. Unconsciously, his hands tightened
their grip on the steering wheel. All he could do now was follow the van and hope the plan worked.

  * * *

  Throat dry and heart racing, Monroe checked his wristwatch as the second hand approached twelve. Almost seven o’clock. Glancing left and right, he quickened his pace. Nobody else approached the white van. Decker could pull into traffic at any moment. Monroe turned the corner, mentally preparing his story. He’d spent the last few days trying to convince Decker how to lead a reformed lifestyle and failed miserably. Now he had to flip the script.

  All week I’ve told him he never has to eat meat again, Monroe thought. Now I have to convince him I’m dying for a porterhouse steak. Well, not porterhouse in the traditional sense of the dish, but…

  Monroe took a deep breath to calm himself.

  Not even close, he thought, nerves jangling. Okay, work with the nervousness. Tell him, I’m jonesing for some meat.

  The van’s engine rumbled to life.

  Monroe hurried forward and called out, a little too loudly, “Room for one more?”

  Decker turned, looking out the window, and did a double take.

  “Monroe? What in the ever-loving hell are you doing out here, brother?”

  “Decker?” Monroe said, again too loudly, feigning surprise. “I had no idea you were part of this?”

  “Part of what, buddy?” Decker said, tugging down the brim of his battered, black leather confederate cap. “I’m just out for a drive with a few friends.”

  Stalling for time, Monroe pulled the folded flyers out of his trouser pocket.

  “I finally figured out what these are. My grandfather always talked about finding an invitation.”

  “Your grandfather, huh? Quite the hellion,” Decker said. “Nothing at all like you, Monroe. You color inside the lines, brother.”

  “You know me,” Monroe said hastily. “My history.”

  “Yes, your history,” Decker said. “Past tense. I know all about the present-tense Monroe and—gotta be honest with you, brother—he’s no fun. At. All.” He put the van in gear. “Now, if you’ll pardon me, I’m running late.”

  “Wait!” Monroe said, catching the doorframe. “Don’t you see, Decker? All week I’ve been trying to change you, but it’s made me realize what I’ve been missing, what I’ve been denying myself. My grandfather knew the truth. This… society thing, it’s a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.”