Grimm: The Chopping Block

Nick entered the dilapidated house alone, his Glock 17 held in a Weaver stance as he scanned the dark, musty interior. Narrow shafts of light hosting a multitude of dust motes sliced through the gaps in the walls and boarded up windows, revealing a warped interior and a sparse collection of tattered and torn furniture, no doubt salvaged on curbside bulk trash pickup days. Though Nick would have preferred a good, old-fashioned flashlight directed along the barrel of his handgun, he’d found that his other senses had improved dramatically after he’d suffered temporary blindness from a Jinnamuru Xunte attack. Surely a benefit of his Grimm heritage—and not the only one. His strength, stamina, coordination and injury-recovery time had also improved.

Through an archway straight ahead, he saw a small kitchen. Slightly to his right, against the far wall, a staircase provided access to the second floor. And to his extreme right, an archway lead into a third room on the ground floor. The Mordstier could have fled out the back door, but if the hinges were a match for the front door, Nick thought he would have heard them squeal in protest. For the same reason, Nick believed the Mordstier hadn’t ascended the stairs. That left one option.

Turning right, gun level at shoulder height, Nick eased across the creaking floor toward the archway that led into the third room. He approached the opening from the side, then pivoted into the room, sweeping left to right with the barrel of his Glock. First he noticed a single row of more than two dozen sets of mounted antlers spaced along three walls in the room, like a wallpaper border made out of bone. Not that the walls had been papered, painted or even stained. A moldy wingback chair, two ladderback chairs and a wooden bench were arranged to face a battery powered radio sitting on a small rectangular table centered along the far wall. A ratty, stain-spotted throw rug filled the open space in the middle of the room.

No sign of the Mordstier.

Nick retreated, intending to take the stairs to the second floor. If the Wesen had fled through the back door, Hank, Wu or McCormack would have spotted him and sounded an alarm—or he was long gone.

Nick’s gut—aided or not by his Grimm abilities—told him the suspect hadn’t fled his home. The Wesen’s presence felt as palpable to him as the mildew and decay. He couldn’t hide forever in a confined space, nor was he likely to—

Something creaked. Wood thumped against wood—behind him.

Nick spun around to face—the bare wall separating the rooms.

“What the—?”

In the blink of an eye, the wall erupted toward Nick.

Instinctively, he shielded his eyes, but couldn’t ignore the rush of movement behind the split planks tumbling all around him. A massive shape, almost doubled over, twin horns lowered to gore him.

Sidestepping, Nick escaped the worst of the impact, but caught what felt like a knee or an elbow to the gut and tumbled over backwards, losing his gun in the process. He sprang to his feet, scanning for the gun, while keeping the bulk of the Wesen before him. What he hadn’t noticed during the bull rush attack through the wall, was the long-handled axe in the Mordstier’s hands.

Nick dropped to a crouch as the blade of the axe whistled overhead.

The Mordstier stomped forward to press his attack.

But Nick was ready for the reverse swing, and caught the wooden handle in both hands. He lashed out with a side kick to the Wesen’s abdomen, eliciting a grunt of pain.

The Wesen yanked the axe back in the other direction, attempting to wrest it from Nick’s grip, but Nick lashed out with his right foot, striking the inside of Mordstier’s left knee.

Wu charged into the dark room and attempted a low diving tackle, his shoulder plowing into the back of the suspect’s right knee.

Finally, the Wesen lost his balance.

Driving forward with the axe handle still clutched in both hands, Nick toppled the behemoth, who crashed to the floor with a wood-splitting impact. But not before the Wesen caught Nick in the midsection with a boot and hurled him toward the near wall.

Though Nick lost his grip on the axe, he spun in mid-air to avoid a nasty collision, hitting the wall with the soles of both feet to kill his momentum, then sprung forward with a quick double-hop to land upright. While flipping end over end, he’d spotted his dislodged Glock in the corner, near the door.

He scrambled for the gun while, in the periphery of his vision, the Wesen sat up, shaking off the cobwebs, the axe beside his left hand. Wu, fighting some cobwebs of his own, climbed to hands and knees and tried to bring his gun to bear, but caught a vicious elbow to the ribs and fell on his side.

With a grunt, the Mordstier placed his palms on the floor, wrapping his left hand around the axe handle. He started to push himself up, but only had time to brace himself before Nick pressed the muzzle of the Glock to the back of his head, directly above the spine.

“Flinch—and I ventilate your skull.”

“I know what you are.”

“Then you know I’m not bluffing.”

The Wesen grunted. But dropped his woge.

The entire battle inside the house had taken less than a minute.

“Slowly, shove the axe away,” Nick said. “Try to pick it up and—”

“You ventilate my skull.”

“Good. We have an understanding.”

The Mordstier slid the axe away from his body and released it. With a quick swipe of his foot, Nick kicked it to the base of the stairs.

“Wu,” Nick said. “You okay?”

Wu nodded as he climbed to his feet, but winced as he pressed a hand to his sore ribs.

“Nothing broken,” he said. “If I’m lucky.”

“I’ll cover him,” Nick said. “You cuff him.”

Reluctantly, Wu holstered his sidearm. He popped open a flap on his belt and tugged out his handcuffs.

Nick backed away while keeping his gun trained on the suspect’s head, positioning himself with a clear line of fire if the Mordstier tried anything.

“What’s your name?”

“None of your damned—!”

“Name!” Nick barked, stepping forward menacingly. “Shame I had to shoot your kneecap while you resisted arrest.”

“Guerra,” the Wesen rasped, as if giving up the information pained him. “Carlos Guerra.”

“Rise, Carlos,” Nick said. “Slowly.”

Guerra climbed to his feet, stumbling a bit as one boot split a cracked floorboard in half.

Wu jumped back, reaching for his gun again.

“Relax!” Guerra said. “Rotten floor’s falling apart.”

“Some place you got here,” Wu said. “Supermarket Dumpster all out of cardboard boxes?”

“I don’t bother nobody,” Guerra said. “You got no business here.”

“Yeah, well, this could have gone a whole lot easier,” Nick said, unwavering in his stance. The situation was definitely not contained. “Hands behind your neck.”

As soon as Guerra complied, Wu slapped a cuff over one wrist, then cuffed the other one.

Hank navigated his way through the front door on his crutches, mindful of the debris from the collapsed porch roof.

“Everything under control?” he asked.

Wu called McCormack in with his shoulder mic. Harris was still out of commission, probably concussed.

“Check upstairs,” Nick told the uniform.

“I live alone,” Guerra said.

“Don’t hold it against us,” Wu said, “if we don’t take your word for it.”

Hank crossed the room, giving the damaged floor a wide berth and peered through the shattered wall.

“Trapdoor,” he said, looking back at Nick.

“Of course,” Nick said. “Hidden under the damn throw rug.”

McCormack came through the kitchen, eyes wide as he looked around.

“Raw meat and blood on the table out there.”

“I hunt,” Guerra said. “To eat.”

McCormack pulled out his automatic and ascended the stairs.

“Open up here,” he called. “Like a loft.”

A short while later, he called down, “Clear.”

Wu checked the antler room and, through the damaged wall, Nick saw him descend a ladder into the underground room where Guerra had hidden. McCormack came down the stairs. A moment later, Wu joined them.

“Root cellar down there,” he said. “Salted meats, mason jars, pelts and bones. Plus a couple shotguns, hunting knives and lots of bloodstains.”

“Sorry,” Guerra grumbled. “No maid service this week.”

“Real talkative now,” Nick commented to Hank. Gun still trained on Guerra’s back, Nick gave him a motivational shove toward the door. “Let’s go.”

An hour later, back at the precinct, Guerra sat slumped in a chair in the interview room, his handcuffs looped around a metal bar bolted to the table, and denied any involvement in a murder.

“You’ve never been to Claremont Park?” Hank demanded.

“Of course, I have,” Guerra said. “Doesn’t mean I murdered anyone.”

“We found bones outside your… dwelling,” Nick said. “Raw meat, bones and blood in your house.”

“Animal meat, animal bones, animal blood,” he said. “Deer, rabbit, squirrel. You arresting me for hunting without a license?”

“No,” Nick said. “Assault with a deadly weapon, attempted murder, resisting arrest and a half-dozen other charges, maybe, but not hunting without a license. We’ll give you a pass on that one.”

“I told you to leave me alone,” Guerra grumbled. “You were trespassing.”

“You don’t own that land,” Hank pointed out. “Building a house—I’m using that term generously—on land you don’t own is a problem.”

“I told you to leave me alone.”

“Right now, guys in the lab are testing the blade on your axe to see if matches the cuts on the human remains we found in Claremont Park,” Nick said. “You want to get ahead of this? We tell the D.A. you cooperated, maybe you get life instead of the death penalty.”

“You got nothing.”

“You better hope so,” Hank said, shaking his head in disgust.

The detectives rose to leave the interview room. As Nick was about to close the door behind him, Guerra called out.

“On second thought,” Guerra said. “I got something to say.”

“Yeah?” Nick asked, waiting for it.

“I want a lawyer.”