A/N: Part two of three. See I told you this was long!
Sending Messages
Part Two
The next morning Nick placed a call to the station near Moreland market. A quick conversation with the case detective informed him that Monroe had indeed left the scene of the crime and the detective was quite piqued about it. Nick managed to talk a copy of the report out of the detective on the promise that his "victim" would make a formal report.
He'd talk Monroe into a telephone interview later.
For now, he had a rough description of four attackers one of whom may or may not be shot in the ass with a BB pellet. They were all young men estimated to be in the age range of late teens to early twenties wearing black clothing. One of them was rather fat and had been holding a cell phone as if he was filming the attack. Nick rubbed his temples in irritation, with the exception of one fat guy with a cell phone the description left a lot to be desired. Especially the black clothing. It was always black clothing. Bad guys never went around jumping people in neon yellow.
"That bad?"
Hank's deep voice broke through Nick's thoughts and he turned to look at his partner standing beside him trying to read over his shoulder. "No, well… sort of," Nick paused taking a moment to look for the infamous Sergeant Wu. The slender Asian man was built like a bean stalk, but carried the stealth of a B-52 bomber. Or a ninja. Yeah, he was an information ninja with his uncanny and often nerve-wracking ability to slip in and out of their bull pen without the slightest disturbance. He waited for Hank to settle into his desk chair before leaning closer and speaking in a low tone, "Grimm stuff."
Hank's deep brown eyes widen and he nodded, "Anything I can do?"
A warm smile spread across Nick's lips. Ever since he brought Hank into this twisted world of living fairytales he often wondered when Hank would reach his limit. A human grasping an understanding of the Wesen world usually resulted in pain. The human was cast as crazy and the Wesen kept quiet playing along with the uninformed humans. Something that Hank had experienced himself with the notable difference that Hank had considered himself crazy. He'd told Nick about night-long vigils with a loaded shotgun and aiming at shifting shadows; at seeking professional help only to snap in the middle of a session and scare the therapist half to death. Nick had wanted to tell Hank then, but with Juliette's freak out fresh in his mind he was scared to live a repeat performance. It had ripped his heart in two to see Juliette look at him as if he was sociopathic stranger about to harm her. He couldn't bear it twice. He needed his partner.
But when Hank threated to quit believing that he was no longer fit for duty, Nick knew he had to try again. Unlike Juliette, Hank's paranoid mind was ready for the revelation. The fact that he almost shot his goddaughter when the Coyotl shifted before his eyes had helped Nick's story. Call it a lucky break.
While accepting this new truth was going well, Hank's emersion into the Wesen world wasn't as smooth. The black and white line that Hank and he usually walked in law enforcement had been significantly blurred into fuzzy gray. Nick had discovered long ago that not all rules could apply in both worlds. Rules often had to be broken and broken badly. Hank may be willing to overlook trespassing or using informants that there was no way of documenting, but bigger infractions were causing him to hesitate. Things like beating a suspect unconscious because if Nick didn't the Lowen would pop up when Nick turned his back to shred him into pieces. Hank was only just testing the waters of the Wesen world whereas Nick had been tossed into the deep end and was told to start swimming.
Nick had little doubt that he had found the limit of Hank's participation when Angelina, a felony fugitive, had returned to Portland with the job of killing Monroe. The wanted murderer was allowed to go unchecked simply because without her Nick had no information to work with. And Monroe's life was on the line. That night, when they waited in the woods hoping to catch the kingpin of the assassination attempt, Hank had stood on shaky ground. He was working outside of police purview with a known murderer and ended up hiding the bodies that resulted from their failed dragnet. The kingpin, some blonde, clearly wealthy woman, escaped, but her minions were dead, and Angelina had died in the fight as well. Hank's limit was met.
Nick didn't want to push Hank any further. He could tell that his partner had been antsy and highly uncomfortable with the entire situation from the get-go. In truth, and in hindsight, Nick knew he should have picked up Monroe from Hank's apartment and left Hank behind without ever introducing Angelina. Then the fallout from that night wouldn't have been so bad.
And the case now before Nick?
It was going to be just as bad. The moment he'd seen Monroe in the kitchen that night his mind had clicked to the only solution. The standard "catch-and-release" style wouldn't do. He knew that Wesen in Portland admired that he put his cop status before his Grimm status, but these attacks… there was no end in sight. Locking these guys up would only make room for someone new. It was feeling a lot like busting drug rings. Bring in one seller only to find two new ones divvying up his territory within the hour.
A statement – a message – needed to be sent. One that would make any would-be petty-thug think about the ramifications of their action before they touched Monroe. If they wanted throw down with Nick – fine. If they wanted to ambush innocents then that was going to be a different story.
Using the tender smile on his face to his advantage, Nick looked at Hank. The broad shouldered Black man watched Nick intently. Hank's concern for his partner was raw on his face. Nick only had to ask and Hank would deliver, "Naw, I've got it. So any word from ballistics on the Dronyk case?"
"Still backlogged. Those techs aren't making it easy for us to catch bad guys."
Nick gave off a small laugh before returning to his computer to check a few things.
The day went slowly with an unfortunately heavy dollop of paperwork. That made it easy to research Monroe's attackers without anyone questioning Nick's activities. It hadn't been easy but Nick stumbled upon a lucky break around lunch. A school yard fight over six years ago at a high school turned ugly when some boys exchanged blows while another boy filmed the event until a few gym teachers pulled them apart. Only two boys were suspended for fighting, Raymond Fry and Jaden Kwan, while the others escaped punishment until a video popped up on YouTube. The video of the fight was grainy and blurry at best, but incriminating enough. It also led to Jeremy Hellard when the YouTube account under "badbeastboy04" was traced.
The video was suspicious but it was the beating that Raymond Fry inflicted upon Jaden after their mutual suspension that flagged this case. Ray hunted Jaden down to finish what he started leaving the boy severely beaten with a heel impression on the back of his left hand. The photos from the police report looked an awful lot like Monroe's hand.
Raymond Fry also had a consistent background in battery that was escalating into aggravated battery. All of his victims' had lived through their attacks and all were left with a heel mark on their left hand.
A follow up call to the station's records clerk linked additional cases through a known associate of Fry's Lewis Saddler. Saddler apparently got off on watching Fry's attacks. He was always around when the beatings occurred but, due to the fact that he never touched the victims, prosecution was always dropped. Instead he was brought in on a range of petty crimes spanning the pathetic gambit of trespassing to peeping.
A search on YouTube proved that badbeastboy04 still had an active account that posted violent videos. Nick shook his head. The lead detective never followed up on the association with Hilliard and his penchant for filming. He'd bet good money that some of these "staged" attacks as the posting claimed were in fact Raymond Fry's rap sheet. The shoddy filming bounced around too much like the Blair Witch Project making the video an assault on Nick's sense of balance. Crappy camera work aside, it clearly showed snippets of Fry beating the crap out of a middle aged business man if the suit the victim was wearing could be trusted. A side by side review of Fry's victims showed that this man might be Harold White. A banker in new accounts at a Bank of America branch who refused to "give a little" when Fry pestered the man for a handout. A few more frames of nauseating video showed a wispy figure palming his crotch in the background who was most likely Saddler.
It also showed that, with the exception of a very human victim, the attacker and background individuals were in fact Schakalen. Nick grinned. The video may induce the need for vomiting but thanks to it he could see exactly what they were. Something a photograph could never convey but video held in evidence perfectly.
There wasn't a fourth.
In all the reports and known associate listings that Nick had compiled, there was never a fourth associate. Only Fry, Saddler and Hilliard. It was the only inconsistency with Monroe's attack. The filming, the boot heel impression, and the estimated ages of his attackers all fit Darrel Reed's description with the glaring exception of a fourth member. But Fry and Saddler were also the right Wesen type thanks to Monroe's nose. There was too much to ignore. Nick glanced at the clock. It was a quarter past five in the afternoon and close to the end of his shift.
"Hey, Hank. I'm going to follow up on a witness report."
Hank looked up at his partner a bit perplexed, "Something missing?"
"Just a small inconsistency."
Hank's brow furrowed before he realized what Nick was doing. He was going to work on that Grimm stuff he mentioned earlier and he was asking Hank to be his alibi. It was something that bothered the senior partner's conscious. He'd always believed in following the rules and he'd thought that his partner did too. After all, you had to in police work. But lately, something about Nick's casual disregard for rules from time to time was unsettling. Nick was also showing a tendency towards violence if the suspect was Wesen; even if the proof was weak. Hank feared that Nick hadn't told him the whole truth about this Grimm business, "'K, need me to tag along."
"Naw, I got it."
Hank watched his partner leave feeling his stomach tie itself in knots. Every instinct that he had cultivated in his career was screaming for him to stop Nick – to follow Nick. For Hank to make sure that his partner wasn't crossing a line that couldn't be covered. Nimble fingers found an errant pen to twirl. Twisting the item around his fingers until a small sense of nervous energy was dispelled. His legs itched and he forced his eyes to leave the sight of the department's double doors to look at the computer screen before him.
Somehow Hank knew that this report wouldn't be finished today like he'd hoped.
Beyond those doors and down into the subbasement parking lot, Nick climbed in the cab of his tan Toyota Land Cruiser pulling up the last known address for Raymond Fry on the mapping app in his iPhone. He memorized the map before shutting the phone off.
A little cold calling wouldn't harm anyone.
Yet.
-WW-
Raymond Fry lived in an apartment complex that could generously be described as shady, but then again there was a lot to be desired from University Park. The Pinewood Park Apartment Complex was located off of Gilbert Ave with a less than a mile's distance to the rail line. Portland may be a city of bridges, but the railroad remained active. The loud sounding of a siren before the whoosh of a passing train felt far too close for comfort. The metal and rhythmic clacking of the train's wheels were distinct. Something that was only possible when you lived way too close to the railway. It made Nick miss the quiet suburbia of Hillsdale even if all those windy roads drove him crazy late at night.
The fact that the sun was low in sky as evening settled in only added to the ambiance. The one-story wood and brick buildings hovered close to condemned but its state of disrepair was well concealed by overgrown evergreens and mismatched bushes. The train's signal bell dulled and, for a moment, Nick considered the possibility of overgrown hedges as a sound barrier. There were no numbers left on the apartment doors leaving only faint sun stained afterimages of what the numbers had been. After a few wrong guesses from neighbors not all that eager to speak to police, Nick found Fry's apartment. It was the last apartment in the back row sharing only one wall with its neighbor on the right and deeply covered in foliage. Across the pathway, the backside of another neighbor's apartment held only one window and it was boarded up.
The complex was laid out like a convict's paradise. The pathways curved sharply under the tunnel-like cover of the sequoia trees above and became dead ends. It made the hairs on the back of Nick's neck raise in alarm. He could be easily trapped or led into a trap in a place like this. Ironically, for all the things he hated about this apartment complex, he was grateful as well. The general lack of interest the neighbors held for each other, the obscured pathways, and the roar of a passing train car all guaranteed that Nick would go unnoticed. A perfect marriage for the reason of his visit. He wasn't here on official police business. He was here as a Grimm. A Grimm who would protect Monroe at all costs and make his message known to the Wesen community today.
Monroe was off-limits.
Nick followed the procedure of knocking and announcing himself if only to have that thin veil of cover that this was for official duties. Usually, in moments like this, suspects ran since the word "police" was synonymous with "run like hell". Nick wasn't sure when the criminal element of the world got together to decide this, he only knew that it happened. It happened a lot. As if a memo was actually written and distributed. So it was downright shocking to see Fry answer the door with full bravado and a wicked grin splitting his lips. Nick mentally shrugged off the surprise thinking with a note of sarcasm that Fry hadn't gotten the memo.
"Hey Po-po, whadya want?"
Fry's dark brown eyes traveled up and down Nick's body in an unnerving manner. He was sizing up Nick and once again Nick wished he was taller. He wasn't short per se but average. And average meant that sometimes you had to beat down a guy before he realized you were a threat. Big with broad shoulders and a height surpassing six feet meant that no one fucked with you. Sadly, Nick was a far cry from that.
The man before him was certainly Raymond Fry. The police reports all read the same. Suspect was a white, slender built man approximately six feet to six feet three inches, and had short-cut light brown hair that was often dyed jet black. He had only a few distinguishing characteristics. There was a tribal tattoo wrapping around his right arm, but, if the man before him had it, Nick couldn't tell. Both of his arms were covered under a thin, black long-sleeved shirt. Fry caught Nick giving him an overview and flexed well-defined muscles noticeably expanding through the light fabric.
Raymond Fry may be slender but he was all muscle. Nick could already picture the MMA wannabe working out at a local Bally's harassing every pretty woman that passed him looking for the ellipticals.
Steeling himself for the fight, Nick held up the badge quickly before pocketing it, "Raymond Fry?"
Fry leaned against the door frame casually looking past Nick to check for his backup, "Yup, and you're all alone too." He made a disapproving sound by clucking his tongue before locking eyes with Nick, "Isn't that kinda dangerous?"
Nick watched Fry he woged in that instant ready to pounce. He flashed a lopsided grin at his success and watched Fry hesitate, "Schakal, right?"
The cocky man back peddled for a moment trying to disguise his shock. He growled, "Grimm."
An average looking man with ginger hair and the beginnings of a beer gut appeared in the background beyond the doorframe with his face curious about Fry's assertion. Nick mentally checked through Fry's known associates quickly finding the name: Lewis Saddler. It was hard to forget that strawberry color hair off-setting a face that Nick wished he could forget. His beady pale eyes were set too far apart against a thin hard line of a nose making Nick think about that art exhibit Monroe and Rosalee had dragged him to featuring Picasso influenced works. A heavy thump indicated that Hilliard might be here as well if history served correctly. Three against one weren't good odds, but there was a reason Nick had hefted his off-duty war bag around the apartment complex. The medieval weaponry might be needed.
Nick's easy smile remained, "Tell me Fry, do you know anythin' about an assault and battery on a Blutbad outside of a market?"
The door cracked under Fry's hand and Saddler's stunned curiosity shifted into a lewd sneer. He giggled in a wholly inappropriate way before shooting a comment to Fry, "Ooh, better watch out, Ray-Ray."
The comment had a confidence boosting effect on Fry. His tense frame loosened before he shifted his weight to the balls of his feet as that cocky grin returned anew. "Aw, friend of yours," Fry queried before chuckling, "oh wait, yeah, he was wasn't he? Too bad I couldn't finish it. Weak."
He spat the word out and Nick reigned in his temper to simple throttle Fry as the Schakal's face made a return appearance.
"Always thought Blutbaden were tougher. Guess bein' a Grimm's pet makes ya soft."
Fry leaned forward forcing Nick to step back. It was habit. Never let a suspect get too close. Maintain a safe distance in order to assess the situation and have time to react to sudden changes.
Saddler's high giggle resumed, "He's not too tough either." He moved to stand just behind Fry. The movement revealed a small hesitance in his step. Perhaps Darrel had shot one of them in the ass. His average build that displayed idle muscles that had only seen the inside of a gym so he could check out the ladies was shorter than Fry's forcing him to stand on his toes to look over Fry's outstretched hand holding the door open, "But kinda pretty for a nightmare." He turned to whisper into Fry's ear without taking his pale eyes off Nick, "Let's play with him."
The monotone voice announcing "Droid" sounded hidden behind the door alerted Nick. Hilliard had just switched on his cell probably so he could record them jumping a Grimm. Nick hated the limited field of vision and was suddenly aware of two things. One, his back was exposed and his heart rate sped up at the realization. Two, was that he had yet to account for the unknown fourth member of this pack. The increasing pulse rate triggered a jolt of adrenaline sending a heavy rate of blood through his neck that Nick could feel.
The snap of a dried and long dead twig replaced the ringing of a bell. Fry sprang forward intending to tackle Nick to the ground forcing Nick to sidestep into the graciously termed landscaping. His bag hitting the concrete with a heavy thud. The Schakal braced his fall with grace using his hands as a spring board to pop up in an instant. He spun around to back Nick into the side of the apartment and into Saddler's path when a glancing blow caught Nick. It came from left away from Saddler's location.
The fourth guy.
Nick stumbled a sideways step as his eye shut to prevent the free flow of blood from obscuring his vision. His ear rang on the left and in his right Lewis Saddler's sickening giggle could be heard. Heavy footsteps and a thick kneeling frame beside Saddler proclaimed Hilliard's entrance into the fray with his cell aimed on Nick. Nick wasn't going to play around with these guys. He'd already made the mistake of letting them circle him and letting them get in the first punch. His hand naturally found the butt of his 9mm semi-automatic. The cool touch of metal familiar and welcoming in his palm. He drew down on Fry and dared to hop across the threshold of the door's path to break the circle of predators.
With his back firmly to the trunk of a large pine tree, he ordered, "Raymond Fry, get down on the ground palms outstretched to either side. Do it now!"
The slick sound of releasing steel answered Nick's question about who the fourth member of this hunting party was. It was a sound that sent chills through Nick. A sound that was overly dramatic and wholly unnecessary. Something only a Reaper would do. A stone faced male concealed well by black clothing complete with hood glared at Nick hiding his frame behind Fry's body with his scythe drawn. Fry had his hands up. His body tense like a boxer in the ring. His moves were just as quick despite the clunky Vietnam-era military boots. He wanted to charge at Nick. His eyes darting quickly to search out an opening in Nick's defenses, but the Reaper knew better. Eyes shimmered under the hood as he looked down at Nick's bag lying in between the warring parties.
Nick knew better too. His gun was an empty threat. If he fired it, the shot might bring in unwanted attention unless a passing train concealed it, but that would take careful timing. It wasn't a viable option. He'd have to switch tactics. Telegraphing his plans, but maintaining control of his weapon, Nick holstered the gun. He needed to get to the bag lying between them and draw quickly before the Reaper and Fry got to him.
There wouldn't be much time. Only fractions of minutes – seconds.
The stand-off hung uneasy between all parties.
Nick didn't dare repeat his order. The Reaper and Fry watched Nick intently waiting for him to move just the tiniest bit. Even an unintentional jerk of the muscles would spring them into action. Hilliard sat cross-legged in the doorway filming the stare down like a bad 1950s spaghetti western. His quick panning from left to right certain to be nauseating to watch later. Saddler leaned casually in the doorway watching Nick with heated eyes. The bulge in his pants only noticeable due to the extreme attention it received from Saddler's right hand.
The urge to shiver in revulsion cross through Nick's thoughts before he bolted. He lunged forward grabbed the thick nylon handle of the bag and jerked it back to his location against a tree trunk. The Reaper's scythe fell forward, its tip scraping concrete when Nick failed to linger. Fry rushed Nick forcing Nick to utilize the bag as a weapon instead of the items inside. He felt a bit like a woman fending off a purse-snatcher. He blocked Fry's quick jabs and a wicked roundhouse kick before swinging the bag to clock Fry upside the head. The Schakal staggered towards the doorway using his friends as a brace as Nick drew his crossbow from the bag. The weapon already loaded with two bolts.
Nick took aim to take Fry out of the equation when he sensed the scythe coming. Ducking as the sharp blade cut a horizontal slash into the tree's trunk, Nick looked up and fired both bolts from the crossbow in quick succession. The habit to fire a controlled pairing well ingrained. The two metal rods stuck deep into the Reaper's throat side by side with only a hair's width between them. The Reaper slumped back and fell to the ground; his scythe dropped into the foliage and forgotten behind Nick.
Recovering from the blow, Fry raged at Nick with Saddler cheering him on. His formally controlled and calculated strikes were wild and uncoordinated and easy to block. Nick didn't have time to reload the crossbow. The bag was at Nick's feet. Grabbing a club weighed down with heavy metal, blunted spikes from the bag, Nick drove the head of the club hard into Fry's stomach knocking the wind out of him and driving him back across the door's path away from the Reaper and a weapon of convenience. The rampaging Schakal doubled over as Nick followed through with an efficient yet bloody blow to the head shattering the bone. Fry collapsed into immobile heap.
Two down.
Two to go.
Renewing his grip on the club, Nick turned to the onlookers startled at his own thoughts. Hilliard and Saddler hadn't done anything more than film and encourage the other Wesen. They hadn't made any moves towards Nick nor had they even lifted a finger to physically aid their friends. And yet they were a threat. Nick's instincts screamed for him to finish off these two in the same or similar matter as Fry. His right hand itched to strike hard with the club it possessed.
But they had only stood and cheered.
But they were witnesses. So far not a soul in the apartment complex had peeked outside in curiosity at the scuffle. No one had popped a head through the wooden slates of the neighbor's window. The distant cry of a whistle promised an oncoming train soon.
Saddler's burgeoning hard on either went lax or forgotten as his hands flew up in surrender, "H-hey now, Grimmy. I'm a lover not a fighter."
Hilliard continued to film. His thick fingers gripped the phone as his dark eyes fixed on the screen display. The deaths of an unknown Reaper and his friend not deterring his need to capture this fight on video.
Nick's warring states of mind added to his agitation as he considered the two for a moment. All his life he never thought he'd let the thoughts running thorough his head right now exist. Everything within his being told him that despite their lack of involvement these two were threats. They could tell others and regroup on a later date to avenge their lost friend. They could simply go to the police and even with Hank's alibi, assuming Hank would give Nick an alibi once he found out, there were too many unanswered questions.
He'd placed himself in quite the quandary.
To leave them here was perhaps the right thing, but opened Nick to an onslaught of problems and questions. To kill them both now would be to kill them in cold blood.
It would make him the nightmare that all Wesen feared.
The thing that Monroe was proud he wasn't.
The connection was inevitable. He'd gone after them to protect Monroe. To send a message that Monroe wasn't an outlet of violence for a frustrated and often frightened Wesen community. Something Nick was certain that the Blutbad would understand even after he argued that it wasn't necessary. Monroe understood the value in sending messages.
But only necessary messages. Like the Reapers at the water plant.
Two unarmed and scared Wesen didn't qualify.
Monroe wouldn't… So what to do now?
The weight of the club in his hand, which had been feather light only moments before, felt like it was pulling his shoulder from its socket. A dead, heavy weight that his arm couldn't bear to lift.
Hilliard panned the cell upwards as Nick walked towards Saddler. The creepy Schakal noticed the shift in mood as his too-wide, fearful eyes shrank back to normal; the pinpoint pupils of his muddy green eyes expanding in understanding. "So we good? We won't touch your boy anymore. It was all the Reaper's idea anyway."
Nick nodded mutely. His instincts told him to kill, but his mind had already decided he wouldn't… he couldn't act upon these two. He didn't doubt his decision to fend off and kill Fry and the Reaper. There was no lingering regret over their deaths. He was just now wishing he had done it in some other way. So that these two filling the doorway didn't exist or hadn't seen it.
The fight had concluded to a dull end and Hilliard lowered the cell. His fat fingers began to touch buttons over the smart phone's screen. The electronic clicking of buttons programmed to sound alerted Nick and his new found sense of calm rose into a nervous panic once more. The video! How could he forget? Far too fast for Hilliard, Nick yanked the phone from the pudgy Schakal to view the screen dropping the club with a hard crack against the concrete. It clattered to the ground with a wooden ring. The phone was opened to a YouTube app and Hilliard's half entered username, badbeas. Nick quickly flipped the phone over to dig out the SIM card before remembering that there wouldn't be one. He couldn't erase the data just like that on a smart phone. He stared at the screen blankly for a moment before closing the app and trying to recall what Wu had told him. The Sergeant was always tech savvy.
But usually he was trying to recover data not delete it.
His instincts slammed against the forefront of his mind as a fresh reminder urged to silence the two before him. He'd known that they were a threat and here it was. His decision to leave them alone wavered on a narrow precipice and threated to tip.
Seeing Nick's dumbfounded staring at his phone's screen, Hilliard had gotten up and tried to retrieve his cell from Nick's stunned hands. A thick palm closed in on Nick and the Grimm took a shuffle step back knocking against the club's handle on autopilot.
The fat Schakal puffed angrily, "Give it back."
Saddler fell back into the apartment with a hitched step sensing a problem with Nick's quiet demeanor. He removed himself from the doorway to become a sliver of a person in Nick's line of sight. Nick pulled the phone out of Hilliard's limited reach, "I can't do that." The words were tight and forced. From his earliest academy days, it was drilled into Nick that the best way, the only way, to calm a suspect down was to avoid the use of "no" words in situations like this. The detective within him corrected the statement to 'I'd like to do that Jeremy. If you turn around, slowly, with your hands up, I can give you your cell phone back.' His right hand itched to retrieve the fallen club.
"Give. It," Hilliard's voice rose edging towards shrill.
"Uh, Jer? We could gettcha a new one. Maybe that Galaxy III you saw on TV." Saddler's voice warbled, breaking into degrees of high and low simultaneously, as he feared the Grimm's reaction. "You liked that file touch thing. Let the Grimm have it."
Nick stared hard at Hilliard. Everything in him begged for the fat man to bring the fight back. It was the excuse Nick was desperately looking for. A reason to eliminate the threat and leave his conscious clean; a way to remain the person Monroe thought he was.
"No," Hilliard roared. "It's got all my data on it. Give it now." He stomped a heavy foot looking for all the world like a severely oversized two year old throwing a tantrum in a Toys R'Us.
The train's whistle cried high into the air.
Nick looked at the irate fat man in the doorway in disappointment. He was all noise and no action. It made his fury comical. For a moment Nick conjured up and overlaid the images of the enraged Stay Puft Marshmallow Man from Ghostbusters with Hilliard. He wanted Hilliard to attack despite it all. Slipping the phone into his back pocket, only to hammer home the knowledge that Nick would not be giving up the phone anytime soon, Nick prodded one more time, "No."
He silently pleaded for Hilliard to force the issue.
A noisy snort came from Hilliard before he turned to stomp down the hallway like a petulant child. Nick felt the urge to do the same. Hilliard's defeated tirade broke the tension. The fight was done. Nick's quandary remained, but the disruption allowed Nick to realize how stiff and sore his muscles were as the adrenaline high wore off. His head throbbed from the blow earlier. Hilliard wouldn't attack. He was far too much a coward for something that brave or perhaps it was the bitter acknowledgement that Nick's only window for taking out Hilliard had slammed shut.
The train roared past.
Surrendering for the moment, he picked up the club and moved to gather up his spent weaponry. Tossing the heavy club into the open bag, Nick recollected the crossbow before moving away from the doorway to pull the bolts from the Reaper's throat. He looked at the bodies trying to figure out how to move them through the apartment complex without getting noticed. With the weapons tucked away in his bag securely, Nick moved the bodies out of the brush next to each other to prepare for relocating. He picked up the scythe in wonder. He supposed he could chuck it into the Willamette along with the cell phone. The water should render the cell phone useless and bury the scythe. He wasn't big on collecting trophies.
The unmistakable click of a hammer locking back to ready a handgun was loud in Nick's ears. It was a sound that made his heart skip a beat and sent a new jolt of adrenaline coursing through his system. It carried with it the knowledge that he had, in fact, fucked up. He dropped the scythe letting it fall back into the overgrown brush and turned slowly with his hands held up in a half-hearted show of surrender. Hilliard stood in the doorway with a .38 revolver aimed at Nick.
"Give it, now."
Nick was momentarily stunned. He hadn't thought that Hilliard had it in him. He had looked weak. He acted weak. And it had caused Nick to question his instincts. Instincts that were now playing a familiar chorus of I told you so on repeat. He was forced to switch gears out of his Grimm methods and back into cop mode. He'd need to calm the suspect down in order to disarm him. "Okay, Jeremy. Put the gun down and I'll hand over the cell phone."
Hilliard's hand held steady as his dark eyes narrowed to focus the sights. He snorted again, "Un-uh, put it down on the ground."
A small part of Nick smiled. It was a common tactic to turn the suspect's orders against him and Hilliard's order was perfect. Nick went to reach behind him, right hand eager for the familiar feel of his 9mm, when Hilliard screamed, "Wait! Turn around and take it out."
Fat buggar was smarter than he looked. Nick's jaw locked in frustration as his plan to turn the tables was aborted. He could not carry out this order; it left him far too vulnerable. Nick wasn't going to put his back to Hilliard one more time, "I'm just reaching for your phone Jeremy. Let me get it for you."
Hilliard's arms dipped low for a moment before leveling the gun at Nick's chest.
Ginger hair bounced back into view as Saddler made a reappearance once he sensed that the threat was over. He looked at Hilliard in awe as he saw the Grimm pinned down by the barrel of a gun. "Oh, nice move Jer. Shoot 'im."
Nick wanted to retort. Saddler was clearly a fair-weather type.
"No," the sound from Hilliard was strained, "he could fall on the phone."
Saddler nodded in faux understanding. "Okay, okay. Have 'im toss his gun into the bushes that way we don't gotta worry about it anymore."
Hilliard's eyes widen. He liked that idea, "Do that."
Nick swore vengeance against every crime drama on television. He was pissed at them and he was pissed at himself. If only he hadn't had that moment of hesitance this wouldn't have happened. Hilliard and Saddler would be already dead and he would be on his way of disposing the evidence. "Okay, Jeremy," Nick tossed his service weapon next to the scythe. The bag of weapons was only a few steps away and he could get them fast. However, if Hilliard had any sort of aim that would put Nick a lot closer to his would-be shooter than he liked. And so far it looked like Hilliard could shoot. The revolver was held with two thick hands at eye level elbows slightly relaxed. His stance was solid and ready for the recoil. There was no way Hilliard hadn't fired it before. He didn't hold it sideways or with one hand or did any of the "cool" things they showed on TV.
Saddler grinned at the change of atmosphere as his right hand slid over his crotch again. Hilliard's sight didn't waver in the slightest, "Now put the phone down and step away." Nick nodded and moved again for the cell, "Gently!"
Carefully putting the phone down so that it didn't make a sound, Nick stood to move towards his left and into the brush towards the scythe, his service weapon and the bag of medieval weapons.
"No, the other way." Hilliard canted the revolver ever so carefully to Nick's right.
It made Nick grit his teeth but he complied. Hilliard wasn't leaving him a lot of options. He'd have to resort to ground grappling in order to take the gun from Hilliard when he went for the phone. Hopefully, Saddler would act as history dictated and remain motionless in the doorway as Nick took the revolver from Hilliard. He didn't seem like much of a fighter. Only a sniveling coward who hid behind others.
Once Nick was far enough for Hilliard's preference, "Lewis, fetch."
Saddler scoffed at the order, "Really now Je..."
"I said fetch."
The order was barked out and Nick could hardly believe that the Hilliard filming the previous fight existed. He had become a completely different person. Saddler shifted around Hilliard's bulk to retrieve the phone. It complicated things but Nick could still make this work.
Saddler bent over to pick up the phone and Nick darted. Hilliard fired a shot that zipped by too close for Nick's comfort. Grabbing Saddler's collar, Nick spun the man around as a human shield. He'd need the barrier in order to retrieve his weapons bag. Hilliard's cell phone still sat on the pavement.
Pulling Saddler down so that he was forced to bend backwards slightly to accommodate Nick's shorter height, "Put down the gun, Jeremy."
Hilliard didn't waver for an instant. He leveled the shot to Saddler's torso with the intent of getting the bullet to Nick.
"Fuck, Jer are you crazy?"
Nick pushed Saddler a little further away from him placing that small and yet important distance between their bodies. Hilliard pulled the hammer back again and Nick shoved Saddler into Hilliard. Nick sprinted for the weapons bag as the shot fired. He tried to grab something as Hilliard dropped Saddler's dead weight onto the concrete. Fear spiked in Nick's head as he realized that nothing in his bag would be faster than Hilliard's bullet. Not even if he could reload and fire the crossbow.
Diving into the mess of shrubbery, Nick searched in desperate panic for his service weapon. The sound of the hammer clicking back for the third time rang in his ears as his hand finally found the steel butt of the 9mm. Relief flooded through his body making his head light. He rolled onto his back to see Hilliard aiming. His pudgy face a haunting picture of dead eyes and determination.
Someone shot and for a moment neither knew who had.
Nick lay on his back in the spider-infested brush with his arms outstretched before him. His gun in his hands and his legs splayed open in an isosceles stance. Hilliard's body slumped and Nick realized for the first time that he had fired first.
He didn't even remember aiming.
Each intake of breath was constricted making each shortened gasp burn. His body was frozen in its place even as the bush's inhabitants crawled over Nick in protest at having their homes crushed. He couldn't stop staring at the empty space where Jeremy Hilliard had stood. The after image of the Schakal imbedded with startling clarity permanently in his mind. He'd have nightmares featuring Hilliard for months – nightmares about how badly he'd fucked up and how close he'd came.
He didn't know how long he'd laid there staring up into empty space, but finally the thoughts of a quick clean up and get-away took precedence as another train sounded in the distance. Gathering himself up and dusting away a few clingy spiders, he set to work.
-WW-
Nick returned home late that night. He finally pulled up to his home around eight. But the thought that it was his home put a smile on his face despite the rough evening.
After the initial clean up, Nick was left to ponder the best way to leave a message. The usual severed head came to mind but he wondered if it would be too much. There was a chance that the apartment's super or a curious neighbor might come by, and be completely human. It made the idea problematic. If they called the cops, CSU and forensic testing might find something Nick didn't intend to leave behind. The scene was a mess of footprints, blood spatter, and shell casings. He'd have to clean up a good portion of that before he left.
That's when it hit him; Jeremy Hellard's cell phone was perfect.
With his mind finally free to focus on the phone, Nick discovered that his capacity to recall Sergeant Wu's impromptu tutorial was restored. Well, in the sense that he remembered to look up 'how to erase data on a Verizon smart phone'. The Internet was damned helpful for moments like these.
He pulled the Land Cruiser around an alley walkway behind Raymond Fry's apartment. He didn't know how he missed it before. The brush leading to the alleyway wasn't overgrown and shown some signs of trimming. Apparently, Fry didn't always answer his door when the cops knocked. Pulling out a set of gloves from his trunk kit, he cleaned the phone of any prints before performing a hard reset. Once the phone was reset and blank of information, he opened the text app to type in a single word 'Grimm' before sending the text to Hilliard's phone. If anyone went looking for Hilliard, the carrier would be able to pull up all texting information despite the hard reset. Nick then turned back to the apartment and Hilliard's body. Placing the phone in his hand, he restored Hilliard's fingerprints and smudges over the phone's case and display screen. For the final piece of his message, he left the phone in a congealed pool of Fry's blood. Hilliard's revolver was left in the dirt where Hilliard had dropped it.
The sky was dark leaving Nick very little light to work with. It made the paths around the apartment difficult to maneuver since the residents here didn't utilize their porch lights and any overhead lighting didn't exist. He dragged the four bodies into the SUV's enclosed trunk bed lined with plastic sacks. Once loaded, Nick checked the scene for any evidence he may have left behind. The incident with the FBI and Marnassier, a Mauvais Dentes, had taught him to not be so hasty. That and there wasn't anyone he rushing to save. Only Monroe with a soon to be cold dinner.
He winced a little at the thought. The older man had probably left a dozen texts and messages but he couldn't turn on his phone to check.
A quick check for footprints showed so many it was astounding. They overlapped and covered each other so often that he doubted any clear tracks could be cast. It wasn't like he stepped in Fry's blood – he mentally thanked the god of circumstances he hadn't. Moreover, it was Portland. If it didn't rain tonight, he'd be shocked. A last minute survey of the bushes for any torn bits of clothing turned up nothing as Nick collected his spent shell casing. Once he was satisfied that the only damning evidence was a bit of blow back on his clothes from shooting Hilliard, and perhaps from Hilliard shooting Saddler, he left.
Deep into winding roads of Forest Park and far from US 30, Nick had found a rarely used dirt road that often flooded in the winter. In this place, that was cut off from tourists and forest service personnel, was where Nick hide those few incidents that couldn't be easily disguised. The Nuckelavee was easy. The horse had surprised Nick at his trailer which was conveniently near the Colombia. The three Schakalen were a bit more troublesome. As a just in case measure, they shouldn't be found for a long time. The three were left at Nick's Forest Park site near a tall canyon drop off point. It was likely that as the snow thaws and slides down the mountain peaks, the three of them may be found. If Nick was lucky it would be a few years and a lot of scavengers later. As an extra measure he took on the unsavory task of digging out the bullet lodged in Hilliard.
The Reaper was a different story. He was an unknown and Nick had taken him out using the crossbow. Nick took the Reaper out to a point along the Columbia not too far from where he dumped the Nuckelavee. He rolled the body into the river and tossed in the scythe after him. The body may float downstream, but the scythe was as good as gone. The bullet from Hilliard's corpse went in as well as an afterthought when Nick realized that one bullet in the depths of the Columbia would never be recovered. As for the Reaper, he should be hearing about a "floater" sometime tomorrow morning.
But that was all over now that he was home.
He was exhausted and dirty. Nick carried a change of clothing with him at all times even before discovering his Grimm heritage. It was a cop thing to do. Rarely, did anyone want to come home with something from a messy crime scene stick to them. Something that had actually happened to Nick in the past. It was before Juliette when he was in uniform and very, very green. A messy alleyway slaughter behind some cargo containers near the docks was called in and Nick was the first on scene. He'd assisted homicide detectives until late in the evening and trudged home only to discover a victim's eyelid on his work boots the next morning. That had been disturbing and embarrassing explaining to his Lieutenant how crime scene evidence was tracked home on accident. From it, he learned to carry a change of clothes. This was especially true now when his boyfriend could smell who he'd met all day long and if blood was involved.
His body ached and he longed for a hot shower. Performing another once over of his attire and securing the bag he'd stuffed the dirtied clothes in, he admitted to himself that he was prolonging the evitable. Nick turned his phone back on to discover a number of texts and missed calls. They all amounted to general checks for where Nick was to more worried and more recent calls of deep concern. It was the unfortunate price to pay when you were going to claim that you forgot to recharge the battery.
Monroe was going to be pissed.
He climbed out of the cab, tucking the phone away in time to see the front door swing open. Monroe's head of shaggy hair the only distinct thing about him as he was silhouetted by the light spilling from the front doorway. Nick shoved the clothes back into the cab. Monroe's normally deep, easy going voice hit a worried octave, "Where have you been? I've been calling and texting you for… I don't know hours."
Nick placed on an easy smile as he reached the front door and went inside, "I know I'm sorry. I had to take care of some things." He gave a light tug on the flannel collar of Monroe's shirt to pull the taller man down a bit to give a quick kiss. He gave Monroe his best "doe-eyed" look, as Monroe called it, since the Blutbad had no defense against it. "I didn't mean for it to take so long."
"Yeah… well," Monroe crossed his arms trying to be mad at Nick in the face of those eyes, "you had me really worried. What if those guys went after you? Why didn't you pick up your phone?"
Nick hung up his coat to conceal a self-satisfied grin splitting his lips, "I don't think they'll be a problem. And, yeah, sorry again."
"Really?" Monroe was flabbergasted. "After last night… man, I'd thought you'd hunt them down."
Nick let out a nervous laugh, "With what? Your stellar eye-witness account?"
A deep frown pulled at Monroe lips, something wasn't right.
"I'm gonna grab a quick shower, K? It's got to bother you." Nick turned quickly not letting Monroe respond before jogging upstairs.
Monroe sniffed the air in confusion. Nick knew he was used to the smell of the station and that he had long ago accepted that Nick would come home smelling of strange people and places. He took in a testing whiff just as he would take a small sip of wine to see if the vintage was palatable. He could smell the precinct laced with undertones of burnt coffee and stale donuts alongside Hank's too strong cologne. It had too much alcohol in it. Monroe always thought that it doubled as an aftershave, but those had a weaker fragrance. The scent of dirt and pine needles was stronger as well as the lavender fabric softener Monroe used to washed their laundry.
He scented the air again missing the unknown and often repulsive scent of others.
Nick had changed clothes.
He took in another pull of air focusing his thoughts on what he already hadn't found. His eyes widened in alarm when he discovered why; blood. He could pick out the scent of blood and gunpowder and something else. Something that made him want to snort out the scent in revulsion.
Monroe looked up the stairs with his brown eyes locked in deep concern, "I'll reheat your dinner since you're so, you know, not downstairs." It held his usually snarky tone weakly. A muffled thanks responded over the sound of rushing water. Monroe frowned for a moment. Nick had always said that he loved that didn't have to lie to Monroe so why did it feel like Nick was lying to him now?