Grimm: The Killing Time (12 page)

“I doubt it,” Juliette said. “It would be difficult for the residue to remain that volatile for any length of time. My guess is that it becomes safe to handle after a few minutes.”

“Sounds like Mrs. Webber’s remains might’ve dissolved some of the sidewalk before they cooled off,” Hank said. “CSU’s going to be scratching their heads over that one.”

“So why didn’t I dissolve?’ Nick asked. “Not that I’m complaining about it.”

Juliette smiled. “Grimms must have some kind of immunity—or at least resistance—to the hormone the Wechselbalg injects. Speaking in purely biological terms, you wouldn’t make a very effective predator of Wesen if you didn’t possess resistance to a wide range of Wesen-based chemical attacks. Even a substance as powerful as the Cracher-Mortel toxin didn’t affect you the same way as it did others.”

Nick grinned. “You are
so
sexy when you talk all sciencey.”

She grinned back. But her grin quickly fell away.

“I just hope Monroe and Rosalee are all right,” she said.

“Even if they are woged, and stuck in their Wesen forms, that doesn’t mean they’ll become aggressive,” Hank said. “After all, this is Monroe and Rosalee we’re talking about.”

“If they’re affected, and I believe they are,” Juliette said, “then their animal natures have been intensified. So we’re not talking about Monroe and Rosalee. We’re talking about a Blutbad and a Fuchsbau.”

After that, she fell silent and continued trying to call Rosalee and Monroe without any more luck than she had before.

Nick pulled into the spice shop’s neighborhood, found a nearby parking space, and moments later the three of them were running down the sidewalk toward the shop, Nick in the lead. As he ran, he drew his Glock from its holster. He didn’t want to hurt either of his friends, but he couldn’t let them hurt each other, either.

When he reached the shop’s front door, he was relieved to find it unlocked. He threw it open and rushed inside. He swept his gaze around the shop, searching for Monroe and Rosalee. He didn’t see them, but he heard snuffling and snarling coming from behind the counter. He headed for it as Juliette and Hank entered the shop. The snarls grew louder, and now they were accompanied by yipping noises. Keeping his weapon low, Nick moved around the side of the counter.

He paused and blinked several times, not quite able to believe what he was seeing. Then he lowered his gun, stepped back, turned, and walked slowly toward Juliette and Hank.

Juliette stopped when she saw the look on Nick’s face. “What’s wrong?” she said. “Are they all right?”

“They’re more than all right,” he said softly. “They’re, uh… well…”

At that precise moment Monroe let out a long, loud howl.

“Oh,” Juliette said. And then her eyes widened in understanding. “Oh!” she repeated, her cheeks reddening.

Hank grinned. “I guess the side effects of this woge disease aren’t
all
bad.”

* * *

The Wechselbalg pulled into the parking lot of the Justice Center, where the Central Precinct was housed. He was relieved to have finally found the place. He’d spent much of the last hour driving around the area, knowing he was close but unable to recall the building’s precise location. This little victory encouraged him. With any luck, he’d be able to access more of his new memories as time went on. And even if he couldn’t, that was okay. He’d make do with what he had.

Humming to himself, he pulled his recently acquired vehicle into an empty parking spot. He’d picked up his new ride—a red Jeep Cherokee—outside of a twenty-four-hour diner. The vehicle had been locked, but the Wechselbalg ran his fingers beneath the wheel rims until he found a small magnetic box with a spare key in it affixed to the metal. Couldn’t have been easier if the vehicle had been delivered to him. It wasn’t bad as SUVs went, but he would’ve preferred a Toyota.

He turned off the engine, got out of the vehicle, locked it, then pocketed the key. He carried his “borrowed” Glock tucked into his pants against the small of his back. He started toward the building’s entrance, enjoying the dual sensation of seeing it for the first time and returning to a familiar, even comforting place. He felt as if he belonged here, a feeling that wasn’t easy for his kind to come by and was all the more precious because of it. Wechselbalgen changed forms and identities often during the course of their long lives, and the feeling of stability—of being
home
—was difficult, if not almost impossible, to come by. But seeing the Justice Center gave him the feeling now, and it was almost enough to make him weep.

As he walked into the building’s lobby, he was hit by a combination of smells, some of which were the same as any workplace. Coffee, body wash, shampoo, deodorant… But there were other smells unique to a police department: metal and gun oil, and the sour tang of suspects’ sweat, desperation, and fear. In and of themselves the smells weren’t strong, and he doubted most of the men and women who worked here were aware of them. As he reached the top of the lobby steps, he stood, eyes closed, savoring the mingled scents.

I am Nick Burkhardt, and this is what my workplace smells like.

“Falling asleep on your feet?”

The Wechselbalg opened his eyes and found himself looking at a uniformed officer.

He struggled to recall the man’s name and was glad when it came to him.

“Hey,
Wu
. I
am
a little tired, I guess. Been a long night.”

“Tell me about it,” Wu said. “Sometimes I feel like I’m the only officer in the precinct on duty, you know? Good thing I have tomorrow off. So what brings you in so late—and without your trusty partner?”

Why
was
he here? The Wechselbalgen had originally headed for the Justice Center out of instinct. But now that he was here, he needed a reason. Especially this time of night. He wasn’t sure how late it was. It hadn’t occurred to him to check. He guessed it might be close to midnight, or even later. He saw the manila folder filled with paper—yellow sticky notes attached to some of the pages—that Wu held, and Nick’s fragmented memories supplied the answer for him.

“Figured I’d get the paperwork out of the way while everything’s still fresh in my mind.” He searched his memories for the name of Nick’s partner. “I told
Hank
I’d take care of it. I’m too wired to sleep anyway.”

“Same here. I need to start cutting back on the coffee, especially when I’m working late. Mr. Caffeine isn’t always kind to me.”

The Wechselbalg frowned. “Do you want me to have a talk with this man? Does he work here?” The Wechselbalg swept his gaze around the lobby, searching for the person who’d been treating Wu badly.

Wu looked at him for a long moment without expression before breaking out in laughter.

“Thanks for the offer, but I think I can handle him.” He clapped the Wechselbalg on the shoulder and then walked away, grinning.

The Wechselbalg watched Wu go, puzzled by the man’s response to his words. Finally he shrugged. Humans could be so strange sometimes.

He dismissed the encounter with Wu from his mind and started walking. He entered the Central Precinct’s main office area and paused for a moment as he worked on identifying which desk was Nick’s. No, which desk was
his.
About a third of the desks had people sitting at them, typing on computer keyboards, filling out forms by hand, or talking on the phone. Nick’s memories told him that the office was quieter and less busy than during the day, and that was fine with the Wechselbalg. This was, in a sense, his first day on the job, and he wanted to ease into it. Just because Wechselbalgen could duplicate their victims’ memories didn’t mean they were automatically perfect at all aspects of their new identity. In some ways, they were like actors who’d been instantly programmed with all the information they needed to play their roles effectively, but who hadn’t had a chance to run through their lines yet. They needed a bit of time to settle into their new roles, and coming here this late, when the precinct was less crowded, would give him a chance to familiarize himself with his new workplace. The less pressure on him right now, the better. It was taking longer than usual for his new memories to settle, and he could use a bit of peace and quiet to help the process along.

Then he saw his desk. At least, he
thought
it was his desk. He started toward it, doing his best to look relaxed and unconcerned. Several of the men and women on duty looked up as he passed, nodded in greeting, sometimes adding a smile or a “Hey, Nick.” The Wechselbalg smiled back and returned their nods. He wondered who they all were, but his memories gave him no answers.

He reached the desk that he was almost positive was Nick’s, and he only hesitated a few seconds before pulling out the chair and sitting. He glanced around, but no one was looking at him curiously, and he felt relieved.

Nailed it
, he thought.

He took a couple moments to absorb the feel of the space. Aside from a computer monitor, keyboard, and phone, the top of the desk was clean. Nick was a man who liked to get his work done and off his desk before the end of the day. Good to know. He opened the desk drawers one at a time and sifted through their contents, occasionally picked up an object—a stapler, a quarter, a small stuffed dog with a heart in its mouth with the words “Happy Valentine’s Day!” stitched on it. He held each object for a time, turning it this way and that, before putting it away. Eventually, he found a blank incident-report form and a pen, and he got to work.

He was concentrating so thoroughly that he was only partially aware of the sound of approaching footsteps. He didn’t worry, though. He recognized them.

“Burning the midnight oil, I see,” Captain Renard said.

The Wechselbalg looked up from the partially completed report.

Renard was a tall, slender man with neatly trimmed black hair and an intense, penetrating gaze. Everything about him—suit and tie, facial expression, voice, stance—spoke of controlled strength and power.

“Do you know how to spell
Skalengeck
?” the Wechselbalg asked.

Renard didn’t answer right away. When he did, he simply said, “My office,” then turned and walked away.

The Wechselbalg put down the pen, pushed the chair back from the desk, stood, and followed after the Captain.

The Wechselbalg was glad Renard led the way. It meant he didn’t have to search his new memories for the route, which allowed him to concentrate on other matters. Nick’s feelings about Sean Renard were complicated, to say the least, and the Wechselbalg was having difficulty sorting through memories regarding the Captain. Some of the memory fragments indicated that Renard was an ally, if not exactly a friend, while others whispered that the man should not be trusted, at least not fully. But there was one memory—more of an image, really—of Renard’s face, the skin ravaged by what looked like raw, red wounds. But the Wechselbalg knew those marks weren’t injuries. They were signs that Renard was more than he appeared to be. He was Wesen. A… The Wechselbalg scowled. The name wouldn’t come to him, but he supposed it didn’t matter what type of Wesen the Captain was. All that mattered was what the Wechselbalg should do about him. Was he a good Wesen or a bad Wesen?

Renard made a perfect target right then. His back was to the Wechselbalg, and he had no idea he might be in danger. And why should he? Nick Burkhardt was one of his people, wasn’t he? Renard had nothing to fear from one of his own. It would be so easy. All the Wechselbalg had to do was draw his Glock, take aim at the back of the Captain’s head, and fire.

His right hand twitched, and he almost reached around to draw his weapon. But a couple things prevented him. If he killed the Captain—especially here in the Justice Center—that would end the Wechselbalg’s police career before it had properly started. And while the Wechselbalg wouldn’t have minded that, for it would give him more time to devote to killing bad Wesen, he could do without the extra burden of being a fugitive from “justice.” Plus, he supposed he really should give Renard the benefit of the doubt. For a little longer, anyway. His hand relaxed, and he followed the Captain into his office.

Renard shut the door behind them. He didn’t sit, nor did he ask the Wechselbalg to, so he remained standing. He took a moment to glance around the office. The lighting was a bit on the dim side in here, and he wondered if there was something about the Captain’s Wesen nature that caused him to avoid bright light, or if it was simply a personal choice. If so, it was just about the only personal touch. There were a couple framed diplomas and certificates hanging on the walls, and a small picture or two sitting atop cabinets. But there was nothing about the office that gave a solid sense of the man who occupied it. Which, the Wechselbalg supposed, told him something about Renard after all. This office said Renard was a man who kept his true self—and his agenda—well hidden from others. And regardless of whether the Captain was ultimately “good” or “bad,” that made him dangerous.

“What the hell is going on?” Renard snapped.

“I don’t know what you mean.” The Wechselbalg frowned. “Is this because I forgot how to spell
Skalengeck
?”

“Quit joking around. This situation isn’t the least bit funny. I want to know what you were thinking killing a couple teenagers for the unspeakable crime of spraypainting a lizard on an alley wall.”

The Wechselbalg wasn’t certain, but he thought Renard was being sarcastic. Renard went on.

“I know you did it. I read Wu’s report. I came into the office this late in case you discovered something about the shapeshifter and needed help dealing with it. Little did I know I’d end up reading about you killing two
different
Wesen. One of the kids sprayed a word on the wall before they died. Can you remember what that word was?”

The Wechselbalg remained silent. It was a tactic that had served him well over the long years. But not this night.

“It was
Grimm
,” Renard said, his voice rising. “I can make sure that tidbit doesn’t go in the final report, but I want to know what’s gotten into you. Because unless there’s something I missed, it doesn’t look like there’s any evidence these two kids were anything other than the taggers they appeared to be.”