Grimm: The Chopping Block (31 page)

“Tomorrow none of this matters,” Nick said solemnly, convinced that this was the last night. If they failed to apprehend the members of the Silver Plate society in the next hour or two, they would have to wait twenty-five years for another chance. “One way or another, this ends tonight.”

Renard nodded.

Nick adjusted his tight grip on the steering wheel and locked his gaze onto the distant van’s taillights. As the minutes ticked by, they began to look like all the other taillights in front of them. Cars changed lanes, flashing turn signals, and then a speeding semi almost sideswiped them as the driver abruptly crossed into their lane. Nick slammed on the brakes, then swerved around the truck and accelerated. When he emerged in front of the semi, his gaze darted left and right.

He’d lost sight of the van.

* * *

Monroe fought off his nervousness, allowing himself only occasional glances at the side view mirror, never once spotting Nick’s Land Cruiser, but confident in the detective’s ability to maintain a tail on a suspect.

Don’t worry, Monroe
, he reassured himself.
They teach that stuff in Cop 101
.

But his anxiety increased, like an itch he couldn’t scratch. Decker took a circuitous path, exiting and returning to the interstate highway, then switching to country roads for a while.

Monroe restrained himself from asking about Decker’s random course for fear of raising or renewing Decker’s suspicions about his motive for accepting the invitation. But the answer seemed obvious. Decker either suspected someone followed them or simply drove in the best way to expose or lose a tail.

Each furtive glance in the mirror revealed fewer cars behind them. With only indistinguishable pairs of headlights to mark them, Monroe had no idea if any particular pair belonged to Nick’s SUV.

He faced the possibility that he was alone, without backup.

Decker chuckled.

“What?”

“Remember when I saw the flyer on your table and asked if you knew what it was?”

“I didn’t know,” Monroe said, honestly. “Not at the time.”

“My first thought was, ‘Monroe’s a damn hypocrite! Lecturing me on the finer points of vegetarianism and yoga, and the bastard’s coming to the meat banquet.’”

Monroe shrugged. “I decided to find out,” he said. “When I realized it was for the big feast my grandfather always talked about… I had to know what it was like.”

“If you had asked,” Decker said, “I could have given you the whole set. Spent last week leaving them around town.”

“Is that why you were at Shemanski Park Market when I bumped into you?”

“Shemanski? No, I drove Chef there. He wanted to check it out. Who knows why. Nobody in the society wants fresh produce. As a garnish, maybe? But those people prioritize the meat, the flesh, and the organs. They can eat a tomato or a squash whenever the hell they want.”

“So, you’re more than a chauffeur for them?”

“Chauffeur? Ha! Driver. Errand boy. Wet work,” Decker said, ticking off each job on his fingers. “They call me Fixer.”

“Wet work?” Monroe asked nervously. “By that, you mean…?”

“Getting my hands dirty for the cause,” Decker said, chuckling again. “Aside from the free meals, I enjoy that stuff the most.”

Monroe’s hands were suddenly clammy. Casually, he wiped them on his trousers and tried to maintain steady breathing. Decker had basically admitted responsibility for the bare bones murders in Portland. And somehow Monroe had to seem okay with that knowledge.

“So, on the news, the chopped-up bones. That was you?”

“It’s more complicated than that,” Decker said. “Mostly, I deal in… procurement. Butcher does the draining and chopping. But sometimes, they need me to… fix leaks. Ha! Maybe they should call me Plumber.” Laughing, he jerked his thumb toward the back. “Already got the signs for it.”

“Leaks?”

“Yep. And some who poke their noses where they don’t belong,” Decker said. “We had this one bitch, thought she was finding rental homes for celebrities and poked… Well, let’s just say that curiosity killed that cat. Once you know a person can’t be trusted, you deal with that person. Permanently.”

Decker suddenly swerved off the country road onto a dirt road that seemed to appear out of nowhere in a heavy tree line.

“Ladies and gentlemen, we have arrived at our destination. Our very own private soiree.”

The van rumbled over a lumpy one-lane dirt road, tires crunching over pebbles on the gentle incline of a winding private driveway. After the shocks had a thorough workout, Decker braked to a stop, about a hundred feet from a house at the top of the hill, windows aglow, surrounded by dark woods.

“You three in back may now remove your hoods, leave the van and make your way up the remainder of the driveway,” Decker said. “You’ll be greeted at the door.”

Monroe peered into the night at the sprawling log cabin home. Twin lines of rental cars ran along either side of the house, some with luggage strapped to the roofs. Members, apparently, knew the secret location, while nonmembers had to decipher the flyers and wear hoods to attend the gruesome festivities. Absently, Monroe reached for the door handle, but Decker caught his other arm.

“I’d like a moment in private, brother.”

“Okay,” Monroe said, nodding and forcing himself not to ramble.

Decker waited for the Crawfords and the man in the overcoat to walk toward the house, then looked at Monroe, a strange glint in his eye.

“Let’s talk outside.”

Once out of the van, Decker called Monroe over to the driver’s side.

“I have something to show you before you get the grand tour inside.”

“Okay,” Monroe said again, trying not to let panic creep into his voice. He had a bad feeling that nothing about the situation was “okay.”

Decker led him a short distance off the narrow dirt road, closer to the trees.

“Hope you left a trail of breadcrumbs?” Monroe said, hesitant to take one more step along the scant trail threaded between the dark and looming trees.

“Hell, you must think I’m an idiot, Monroe,” Decker said, shaking his head in disgust. He pulled an automatic from the back of his waistband and pointed it at Monroe’s chest. “This is as far as you go.”

Hank awoke first to the insistent throbbing of his head, but then he became aware of the pleasant sound of violins—Vivaldi’s
The Four Seasons
—playing all around him, and he tried to forget his own discomfort to focus on his present surroundings. The occasional clinking of wine glasses struck discordant notes above the bed of music, prodding him to remember, along with the indistinguishable susurration of a dozen overlapping conversations. Not until he opened his eyes and squinted against the painfully bright light shining down on him from an elaborate chandelier did the pieces fall into place: the basement dungeon; human captives chained to the walls, dreading the moment when the house butcher came for them; and the butcher himself, a rhino-like Wesen with a large horn in the middle of his face, and a shorter, bony protuberance above that, in the middle of his forehead.

He remembered the Wesen butcher shoving his head against the wall and before that, his promise that Hank would be eaten alive. Then Hank became aware of his arms stretched over his head as he lay on his back. He tried to sit up and heard the rattle of chains a second before the play in them ran out. Ignoring for the moment the formally dressed partygoers milling around him, he glanced up toward his restraints. They’d stretched his arms apart and chained his wrists to iron rings that passed through angled beams of wood that came together under his body. Lifting his head, he confirmed that his ankles had been secured in similar fashion. He’d been spread-eagled over an X-shaped table. In addition to the chains at his extremities, a two-inch-thick padlocked iron band looped around his waist and the center of the table.

Hank thrashed side to side, trying to topple the table, to no avail. Leaning sideways and craning his neck as much as possible, he looked down and noted the table’s wide base. The center of gravity was too low for his tipping strategy to work. In a crowded room of seemingly civilized people, he was completely helpless, a lamb to the slaughter.

“Help me!” he yelled. “Someone! Think about what you’re doing!”

A man in his late sixties wearing a crimson tuxedo turned and looked down at Hank, smiling.

“Oh, believe me, we think about this. For twenty-five years we think about this. I wore red for the occasion!”

“You’re crazy!” Hank yelled. “A bunch of freaking psychos!”

A few men in tuxes and women in evening gowns deigned to glance at him, appearing uniformly amused by his outbursts, but none offered assistance or even a reply. Hank couldn’t goad or shame them into helping him. His defiance was only a source of amusement. Futilely, he pulled on the chains binding his wrists, pulling them first one way and then another, seeking some give in the iron rings or the wood holding them in place.

A bell rang, three times in a row.

A hush fell over the crowd.

Is this it? Will they cut into me now?

A portly old man wheeled out a serving cart and someone whispered, “Chef’s last offering before our main course?”

“Ladies and gentlemen,” Chef said. “While it is soon time to enjoy the
Straffe Kette Abendessen
—our tight chain supper—please allow me to present for your delectation, and to whet your appetites this evening”—he lifted the lid off a serving dish which Hank, mercifully, couldn’t see—“Bone marrow topped with French escargot and herb breadcrumbs to give it a delightful crunch. With this, ahem, Brosseau Marrow Special”—several knowing chuckles, whereupon Hank remembered the name of the French youth he’d been unable to save—“I offer toasted house-baked baguettes and grilled lemon wedges.”

Polite applause followed Chef’s announcement.

Another man strode up to Chef’s side and slapped his shoulder appreciatively.

“Thank you, Chef! This has truly been a marvelous month of gustatory delights!” More applause, this time with much more enthusiasm. “It is my duty, as Host, to bring our month-long festival to a close this evening with the
Straffe Kette Abendessen
. And tonight, I’ve selected a special meal for tight chain, a hunter who has become our prey.” Applause and whistles of approval. “A member of the local constabulary, this man sought to find and arrest you, the members of our very discreet society, and put an end to our festival tradition. Well, I say, his loss is our gain.” He waited for the umpteenth round of sick applause to fade. “And our victory will make the raw meat all the sweeter. So, in a few minutes, we shall close our festival with tight chain. But, a word of caution for our first-timers, who have witnessed only decorum thus far. This last meal gets messy!”

Boisterous laughter and cheers erupted around Hank.

Chef returned with his serving cart, but this time, he’d brought out a gleaming assortment of carving knives. Hank heard one tall, hunched woman in a sparkling, ankle-length gown say she preferred tearing into raw flesh with bare hands and claws. “So much more sensual that way!”

Jaw clenched, Hank bucked and pulled against the chains until his muscles trembled with unrewarded effort. Finally, he dropped back, exhausted and panting, and wondered if he’d descended into one of the levels of hell.

At that moment, Hank watched as Ellen and her son, Kurt, approached the host. Ellen leaned forward and whispered in his ear. The host nodded.

“You!” Hank yelled at her. “You’re involved in this freak show?”

Ellen looked toward him but avoided his accusatory gaze, while Kurt looked downward, avoiding eye contact with everyone in the room.

Crawford protected his family from this sick bunch
, Hank thought, confused.
And she joins the psycho party…? Was she involved all along?

“Everyone, your attention please,” the host said, arms raised. “Our last meal is postponed for just a few minutes. I need to speak privately with the Crawfords about a business matter, then I will join you all for the final celebration. In the meantime, please sample the bone marrow special. Thank you for your patience.”

Hank watched the three of them leave and wondered if the widow expected a final payment—a death benefit—for her husband’s services. From everything she’d said, and everything Crawford had admitted, his family had been kept in the dark.
She shouldn’t even know about this place
. At this point, Hank assumed everyone had been lying.

* * *

Ellen Crawford followed Graham Widmark up the stairs to his second-floor office, Kurt close to her side. On the second floor, the classical music and dinner conversation faded and Ellen’s nerves became frayed. She’d taken a chance coming to this place, but she had wanted to see for herself, despite the danger.

Widmark walked behind his large mahogany desk decorated with a brass banker’s lamp and stood there, motioning them to sit in the two wingchairs in front.

“I’m glad you came, Mrs. Crawford. I’ve planned this event for years—my first time hosting Silver Plate—and it would not have been possible without the contributions of your husband.”

Ellen and Kurt approached the chairs but neither sat. Widmark, too, remained standing.

“Lamar wanted no part of this,” Ellen said bitterly.

“And yet, I was delighted when his son, young Kurt here, decided to join our feast last night.” He looked at Kurt and smiled. “You slipped out before I had a chance to say goodbye, young man. I hoped you enjoyed your meal.”

“I didn’t eat any of it,” Kurt said. “I only wanted to see this for myself.”

“No shame in that,” Widmark said. “Not everyone has the stomach for a participating membership. How about you, Mrs. Crawford? Have you sampled any of Chef’s specials this evening?”

“Not at all,” Ellen said. “And I have no intention of starting now.”

“Regrettable, but I understand,” Widmark said. “You are in mourning. Now, as to the matter of the additional payment you requested for Lamar’s efforts on our behalf…” He leaned forward, opened the right desk drawer and reached inside. “I’m afraid that’s not possible.”