White Collar/Grimm Crossover: My Fate Cries Out, Part 1
Title: My Fate Cries Out
Fandoms: White Collar, Grimm
Rating: R
Characters/Pairings: White Collar: Neal, Peter, El, Moz; Grimm: Nick, Monroe, Hank, Rosalee; Gen
Spoilers: Nothing that hasn’t aired
Content Notice: Violence
Word Count: 18,700
Summary: Neal and Peter follow a case to The City of Roses, where they team up with Nick and Hank (and Monroe) to stop a series of murders. When their suspect turns out to be a lot more than they bargained for, and someone close to them becomes the latest victim, Neal and Nick combine forces to bring down a dangerous monster.
A/N: My casestory Big Bang entry. Takes place in a post-anklet White Collar universe, and S1 of Grimm. Additional notes at the end.
In addition to the terrific art you see above by elrhiarhodan, nessataleweaver has created this fanmix!
Part 1 | Part 2
----
Peter stood behind Jones in the van, tensely monitoring the operation going down in the large warehouse across the street.
This bust was the culmination of a long, complicated case that began as a simple report of suspected inheritance fraud eight months earlier that had developed into a city-wide conspiracy involving multiple suspicious deaths over the course of several years. It was the kind of case that was like an onion - every time it seemed they’d gotten to the bottom of something, another detail would send them off on another line of investigation.
The case had picked up steam in the last eight weeks, with Peter at the head of what was now an inter-agency task force. When he thought about the “war room” he’d had to set up on the 20th floor, and about the network of LEOs at his command to try to take down what was now known to be a network of murderous thieves, it didn’t fill him with the pride he thought it would. No, it made him itch to have it done with, before one more innocent man or woman lost their life - and their family’s inheritance - to these people’s ruthless practices.
The setup was simple - and all the more insidious for its cookie-cutter-like, repeatable nature. Lonely, reasonably well-to-do, middle-aged man or woman meets charming, reasonably attractive somewhat younger person and they begin a relationship. Sometimes they were romantic, others were friendships. But in all cases, the victims were found comatose or dead of seemingly natural causes, and weeks or months later, their families would find that insurance policy beneficiaries or wills had been changed or altered. The perpetrators were smart enough not to take it all - it would have brought unwanted attention - and so their crimes went unnoticed and unreported for what had turned out to be nearly three years.
Some d-bag from Organized Crime had dubbed them the “Lonely Hearts Murders” - a moniker Peter despised, and Neal often teased him with it. At its head was a woman known to them only as “M,” who they had not been able to lay eyes or surveillance on in all the months since Peter had first caught the case. But a reasonably well-placed informant familiar with the organization had assured them that the woman would be in this place for an important meeting with her lieutenants, and the sting had been hastily set up.
“All units in position, Peter,” Jones reported.
Peter took a deep breath, waited a beat and then let his hand rest on Jones’ shoulder. “Take ‘em down,” he ordered.
“You hear that? We are go. Unit A, take the front door. Unit B, hold your position for my go-ahead.”
Federal agents!
Hands where we can see them!
No funny stuff. I said, no funny stuff!
Peter tensed as he heard a few rounds of gunfire exchanged, and someone reported an “unfriendly” had been shot, but it seemed that the initial resistance was put down quickly. Jones dispatched Unit B a minute later to cover the rear entrance, and Peter imagined the men and women under his command storming through the barriers, breaking down doors to bring their perpetrators to justice.
Northeast quadrant secure! came the voice of one of Ruiz’s OC agents.
Southwest quadrant secure, came another - Peter was proud to realize it was his former probie Blake.
He waited expectantly for two more reports; if he were a nail-biter, he’d have drawn blood by now.
Southeast quadrant - clear!
Peter relaxed marginally, but not completely. No report from the Northwest - where Diana and Neal were assigned.
Neal! Christ! Peter thought. This was his former CI’s first bust since taking a full-time position with the Bureau after his sentence had been commuted. Peter was both happy and proud that he’d chosen to stay with the White Collar unit, to continue the partnership they’d formed nearly three years before, though today his feelings were mixed. While Neal's proficiency with firearms was now the stuff of legend around the New York field office, Peter still worried about his willingness to actually use one if needed.
FBI! Freeze! It was Diana’s voice, clear and commanding. There was a sudden crash and a groan as if someone was hurt. Crap, I’m down, I’m down, came Diana’s voice, slightly breathy, pained, and Peter’s hand was bruising on Jones’ shoulder as he dispatched backup.
“Diana, report!” Jones ordered.
It was “M”, I’m sure of it, was her gruff reply. She was out of breath, in distress. Fucking hell, what did she hit me with? Caffrey, she’s headed your way.
Peter’s heart hammered in his chest.
“Neal, report,” Jones said calmly.
There was no answer.
“Caffrey!” Jones said, his voice loud, insistent.
The sound of running feet came over the comm link then, from far away, getting louder, nearer. Freeze! FBI! Neal said - ordered - his voice sure, calm, commanding. Peter felt a surge of pride mixed with trepidation.
But there was a strange sound, suddenly, like a roar- but not. Like a hiss - but not.
Shit, shit, shit! Neal said. A gun fired.
Shots fired! Shots fired! Diana was saying, her voice tense. Neal?!
“Caffrey report!” Jones fairly shouted.
Ohmygod, ohmygod, Peter could hear the terror in Neal’s voice.
Neal? Neal, you OK? Diana said - she’d clearly found him.
Don’t look, don’t look, Neal was saying, chanting, his voice low, almost a moan. If Peter didn’t know better, he’d say Neal was petrified.
Neal!
Don’tlookdon’tlookdon’tlook!
xXxXxXxXx
Six months later
Detective Nick Burkhardt headed down the corridor towards the Intensive Care Unit of Portland Presbyterian Hospital, to meet with the doctor for another victim in the case he had been working. This was not the oddest investigation Nick had been involved in of late; since his Aunt Marie’s death eight months ago, and his subsequent inheritance of her “gift” of seeing the creatures called Wesen among ordinary citizens, he’d had his share of doozies. Perhaps this case resonated because it didn’t seem to have any relation to that other world of which he was quickly, if reluctantly, becoming a part.
The latest victim - a college professor in his mid-50’s named Mark Henderson - had been found by his daughter the day before in what was a form of paralysis, but with no discernible cause. Such a case would normally not have garnered the attention of Portland PD’s Homicide Division, but this was the third victim in as many months, and if the usual prognosis for the victim was to be seen, he’d be dead within the next 72 hours.
“Doctor Patel,” Nick greeted the neurologist who’d worked all three cases to date as he arrived.
“Detective,” she said, acknowledging his arrival.
Nick looked past her at Henderson and his daughter, who had been sitting with her father since he’d arrived in the ER the night before. “Any change?”
Dr. Patel sighed. “None. I’ve run every test I know and can find no cause for his condition. Every indication is that he is a normal, healthy man.”
“What’s the name of it again?”
“Well, I’m not sure if it’s the right one, but we call it ‘locked-in syndrome.’ It’s a form of total paralysis. He’s in there, he’s completely awake and aware, but he can’t move a muscle except for his eyes.”
“Is it curable?”
Patel shook her head. “I’m afraid not. We can treat his symptoms, and we can make him comfortable, but this will eventually kill him.”
“Doctor, this is the third case in as many months - is there some underlying cause we should be looking for? Some virus, or -“
“No, Detective. There is always a physical cause - an injury, stroke, even certain venomous snakes can cause locked-in syndrome. But there’s no indication of any kind of an injury.”
“And the snake?”
“Well, unless he’s been traveling in the Indian subcontinent, which his daughter assures me he has not, then we are out of luck.”
Nick shook his head regretfully, then had to excuse himself as his mobile phone rang. “Yes, Captain?” he answered.
“Nick, there’s been a wrinkle in our Sleeping Beauty murders.”
Nick frowned - he’d like to kill Wu for coining that phrase when the second victim turned up. “What now?”
“Got a call from the first victim’s family lawyer - it seems a couple of his insurance policies had their beneficiaries changed, to an acquaintance that has nothing to do with the family. They can’t figure out why. I want you to run it down, see if anything turns up.”
----
Nick and Hank pulled up in front of Jane Timoney’s Tarot card reader’s shop downtown, and Nick groaned loudly. “Why is it always the fortune tellers?” he asked.
“Can you think of a line of work that employs more charlatans and con artists?” Hank said with a smirk. Hank had driven - as the senior person in their partnership, he liked to claim it was his right, and Nick was happy to go along with his friend. Hank unfolded his long legs from the sports car he had somehow gotten assigned to him out of the auto pool, and closed the door, leading the way to the tiny shop that was nestled between a Vitamin Shoppe and a women’s book store.
They entered the tiny shop and Nick sneezed three times from the heavy incense that was burning inside. The “mystic” was with a client, or so a nearly indecipherable bit of calligraphy on a card told them, and they cooled their heels in the waiting room. Hank thumbed through a copy of “Seers Today” with a look of befuddlement on his face.
Fifteen minutes later, a tall man emerged from the back and brushed past them on his way out. He was soon followed by a pleasant-looking woman in her 40’s. She was short, dressed in a loose-fitting skirt and blouse, a long, hand-crocheted vest over the whole outfit nearly touching the floor. A colorful scarf helped to control the long dreads that hung down her back, and she was actually barefoot, with an anklet of tiny bells decorating her right foot. She was about what Nick would have expected for Portland, but her behavior was not.
“Good morning,” she said in a highly cultured British accent. “I’m afraid I don’t accommodate walk-ins on Tuesdays. Can I make you an appointment?”
Nick stepped up to the counter and pulled out his shield. “That won’t be necessary. We’re with Portland PD, investigating a homicide. Are you Miss Timoney?”
“Mrs.,” she corrected him.
“Mrs. - Timoney,” Nick said. “Can you tell us about your relationship with an Adam Jablonski?”
A flash of grief crossed the woman’s face, which she attempted unsuccessfully to mask. “H-homicide? I thought he fell ill…?”
“There are suspicious circumstances. We can’t really elaborate. Please, your relationship?”
“We were friends. I was saddened to hear of his passing.”
“Was he a client of yours?” Hank asked.
“Oh, not at all. We met at a benefit for the Public Library, actually - we both wound up serving on the same fundraising committee.”
“So there was no romantic involvement?”
“We saw each other socially, but there was no romance. I recently lost my husband.”
“I’m sorry for your loss,” Hank mumbled. “Did you know that Mr. Jablonski had made you the beneficiary on one of his insurance policies?”
Nick watched her closely to see if she’d reveal a tell - or, as had been a constantly evolving part of his life, any indication that she was a Wesen. Nick was a Grimm, the latest in a long line descended from the famous brothers, whose mission was not actually to catalog folk tales and legends, but to record incidents of Wesen violence against humans. Any kind of emotional upset tended to force Wesen to reveal their true natures to Nick - an ability he’d inherited from his famous ancestors.
But there was none with Mrs. Timoney, who continued to look at Hank as steadily as she had Nick, with a type of sad guardedness in her eyes. “I did not know that. No one was more shocked than I. I’m afraid I have no idea why he would have done that - I told the family lawyer that yesterday.”
Hank nodded, seemingly satisfied. He looked up at Nick. “Mr. Jablonski fell ill on the 27th of February - do you recall your whereabouts on that date?”
Mrs. Timoney turned her gaze to Nick, and looked at him thoughtfully. “I’ve no idea, I’d have to check my diary.”
“Could you? I hate to ask, but we must be thorough.”
“Of course.” She blinked several times, but walked over to the desk and pulled a calendar out of a drawer. She paged through it, and then nodded, as if confirming something. “I was out of town, at a family reunion in Beaverton. I didn’t return home until Sunday evening.”
“You stayed at a hotel?”
“I did - the Wayfarer Inn.”
Nick made a note of it and nodded. “Had you seen Mr. Jablonski at all in the days leading up to his, er, illness?”
“I ran into him at a coffee shop that Friday morning. We chatted for a while, he walked me to my shop, that was it. We talked about the library, about our chances of getting the mayor to attend our next fundraiser, that kind of thing. He seemed perfectly normal to me.”
“He wasn’t scared or agitated in any way?”
“Not to my eye, and that’s my stock in trade. In this line of work, you develop an uncanny sense of people, you know? He seemed perfectly normal and calm to me.”
Nick took a note and nodded, thanked her for her time and left with Hank.
“Another dead end,” his partner said, unlocking their car.
Nick shook his head. “This case is going nowhere,” he said, frustrated. He didn’t look forward to returning to the precinct.
----
Nick was running down Jane’s alibi the next morning when his boss approached him and Hank. A tall man with a regal bearing, Captain Sean Renard loomed over Nick until he’d gotten off the phone with the manager of the Wayfarer Inn in Beaverton. Jane’s alibi was confirmed - she had checked in the weekend of the 27th, and stayed until that Monday morning. Nick didn’t like the look on his captain’s face.
“Something up?”
“We’re about to get a visit from the FBI,” Renard informed him gravely.
“What?” Nick felt the heat in his face immediately and rose to his feet. Having the Feds involved in any case was not just a jurisdictional pissing match - although that didn’t make it any more enjoyable. Dealing with Federal cases just led to a shit ton more work and correspondingly less glory and reward for their troubles.
“For what case?” Hank asked, looking as annoyed as Nick felt.
“Sleeping Beauty.”
“No way, boss. On what grounds? It’s strictly local,” Nick said.
“We don’t even know if a crime’s been committed yet,” Hank pointed out.
“All of these are points I made to the Chief of Detectives, but he would not be moved. Seems these cases carry the hallmark of a rash of similar murders in New York. Now that it crosses state lines, it makes it a Federal case. The Chief has asked that we provide the FBI with our utmost support and cooperation, in a manner befitting the great Portland Police Department.”
Nick couldn’t resist rolling his eyes. “Which means what? I’m not getting them coffee.”
“That’s what we’ve got Wu for,” Hank said with a smirk.
Nick shoulders hunched - already he knew this would be a long day. “When can we expect our guests?”
Renard consulted a notepad he held. “Special Agent Peter Burke arrives on the 3:45 from Newark; he ought to be here for a debriefing at 5:00.”
“He would arrive at the end of shift,” Hank pointed out.
“Yeah, well, mind you make him feel welcome - I do not need the Chief crawling up my ass again.”
“Sure thing, Cap.” Renard returned to his office and Hank sat down heavily in his chair, tossing his pen across his desk at his computer monitor. “Well, our productivity on this case just hit the single digits.”
Nick sighed ruefully and sat down in his own chair. “You’re telling me. Well, I guess we can just keep working on the half dozen other cases on our sheet, eh?”
xXxXxXxXx
Neal leaned impatiently across Peter, watching their descent into Portland. Peter gave him a bemused look, but quickly turned it into a scowl to keep up appearances. “Do you mind?”
“What?” Neal glanced at him, but leaned over even further.
Peter raised his left arm and pushed Neal back onto his own side of the seat. “Personal boundaries. Respect them.”
Neal looked aggrieved. “Well, you hogged the window seat, what am I supposed to do? I’ve never seen it from up here.”
“You’re about to see a whole lot of it. Somehow, I’m not picturing it as your kind of town. There are lots of trees. And rain. And coffee shops.”
“I like coffee.” Neal bounced a little in his seat, undoubtedly excited, and adjusted his impeccably-tied tie. His blue eyes shone with excitement, but Peter wondered if his partner wasn’t hiding something. It wasn’t often that their work took them out of New York, let alone all the way across the country, and though Peter thought Neal would enjoy it, he was still worried. Neal blamed himself for their botched attempt to bring the leader of the Lonely Hearts ring to justice. Though the bust had yielded nearly a dozen arrests and the end of their operation in New York - and unfortunately one casualty among the accused - the loss of the ringleader was a blow that Neal hadn’t really recovered from. He’d thrown himself into trying to track her down - it was like his own personal obsession, and the lead in Portland was one he’d put together himself. Peter could understand being obsessed with a case - hadn’t he been similarly driven when he’d pursued Neal all those years ago? But that didn’t mean he couldn’t worry for his partner.
“I’d say you’ve had enough coffee,” Peter said with a smile, watching him bounce, and began to pack up the case files that had been strewn across both of their tray tables as the flight attendant called for them to prepare for landing.
----
“Why do I never get to drive?” Neal asked as he tossed his fedora onto the back seat of the rental Taurus and Peter closed the trunk with a satisfying slam.
“Because I’m the boss?”
Neal settled himself into the passenger seat. “Well, that hardly tracks.”
Peter folded his tall frame into the driver’s seat and adjusted it back. “Because I’m bigger’n you?” He smiled as he said it brown eyes flashing, making Neal smile.
“Fine. This thing have the optional navigation system with SYNC Services, T-M?”
“Don’t be a smart ass. And yes - I sprang for the upgrade.”
Neal fiddled with the radio as Peter instructed the car where to take them. “Huh,” Neal muttered as he saw the route the navigation system laid out for them. “You should probably take the I-5 - it’s longer, but at this time of day, there will be less traffic.”
“Are you ‘Shadow Traffic’ now too?”
Neal merely shrugged, but then the navigation screen in the car’s dashboard lit up with warnings for traffic delays on their route and Peter gave him an odd look.
The drive to meet with Portland PD progressed without a hitch. They didn’t speak of the case, or anything really, even though it had been the only thing they’d discussed on the plane. Neal was content to stare out the windows at the passing scenery and buildings, and so Peter found the local NPR station and settled in to catch up on national news.
When they arrived, Peter asked the desk sergeant for a Captain Renard, who presently came down to greet them with the perfunctory courtesy Peter had been expecting. Local law enforcement usually resented Federal agents taking a hand in their investigations, and a part of him didn’t blame them. But he was not the kind of Agent that took undue credit or threw his weight around, and he hoped he’d be able to demonstrate that to their hosts in good time.
They were shown to a conference room, which had a break room adjacent where they could help themselves to some coffee. “I’ll just go and get my two lead detectives on the case, and we can begin the debriefing,” Renard said and left the room.
Peter took a seat as Neal busied himself with setting up the PowerPoint presentation he’d insisted on making, “Because visuals are important, Peter, God!” and Peter reviewed his case notes.
“Here we are,” Renard said as he re-entered the room. In his wake came a tall, African American detective who took in the two Feds with detached disinterest - Peter noticed he didn’t seem to be judging them yet, and he liked him the more for it. Behind him was a shorter man, dark haired, with large, intelligent grey eyes that Peter could already tell never missed a single detail.
“I’d like to introduce Detectives Hank Griffin,” Renard indicated the first man, “and Nick Burkhardt.”
Peter stood as Neal straightened up from hooking his laptop up to the room’s projection system. Peter held out his hand to Hank. “Special Agent Peter Burke. This is my partner -“
“Neal Caffrey,” Nick said as he caught sight of Neal. Peter didn’t miss the recognition - or the shock - as the two men looked at each other.
“Nick - hi,” Neal said, and for perhaps the first time since he’d known him, Peter found himself looking at a completely gobsmacked Neal Caffrey.
“You two know each other?” Hank said, raising an eyebrow and looking between the two.
“You could say that,” Nick said. “Neal's my cousin.”
xXxXxXxXx
Portland, 1994
Nick heard Aunt Marie's car pull into the driveway and slipped off of his bed, the copy of the latest X-Men comic forgotten on the coverlet, Wolverine’s face snarling in close-up. He peeked through the curtains of his bedroom window and tried to stay out of sight as Marie and his cousin - correction: second-cousin, whatever that meant - got out of the car. Marie walked to the front of the car and held an arm out to the newcomer, who reluctantly moved towards her. She slipped her arm around his shoulders and hugged him tightly, briefly, then escorted him into the house.
Nick crept out into the hall and crouched down at the top of the steps as they came through the front door.
“Would you like a snack?” Marie was saying. Neal shrugged. “Have a seat there, I’ll bring you something - it must have been a long flight.”
Neal took a seat on the edge of the couch, and Nick leaned forward a bit so he could try to see his face. As he did, the floorboards creaked and Neal looked up at him. His face was pale, grave, his dark hair long and hanging over his collar, blue eyes wary. Nick was struck at how much of a family resemblance he was looking at - Neal had the complexion and blue eyes of Nick’s own mother. Their eyes locked, and they shared a silent communion - they were both orphans now, both of them had suffered more loss than most of their peers.
Nick pulled back as Marie arrived with a glass of milk and a bag of Oreos for Neal - she had a nurturing streak to be sure, but she was no Martha Stewart. She set them down on the end table for Neal and squeezed his shoulder encouragingly. When she straightened, she said, “You going to just lurk up there, Nicholas, or are you going to come down to meet your cousin?”
Nick never knew how she did it, but Marie seemed to have eyes in the back of her head. He unfolded himself and went downstairs.
“I’m Nick,” he said from the living room doorway.
“Neal.”
“Sorry about your dad,” Nick said, working the toe of his sneaker into the pile of the carpet.
“Thanks.”
“My folks died two years ago.” Nick knew exactly how Neal was feeling.
“Really?”
“Sucks.”
“Yeah.”
They didn’t need to say anything more - they had an understanding.
The next morning was Saturday, and when Nick went downstairs, he found Neal making pancakes for them all. He grabbed some milk and watched, bemused, as Neal moved around the kitchen, clearly knowing what he was doing. When Marie came down, she said, “Oh, Neal, honey, you didn’t have to. But I’m glad you did.”
----
Neal, being easily adaptable, fit into Marie and Nick’s lives as easily as if he’d always been there, and Nick idolized him. He taught Nick card tricks and sleight of hand, made sure he always ate a good breakfast, and was the one who encouraged him to pursue his artistic talents. Neal was a tremendous artist and painter, and Nick learned a lot.
Nick was beginning to get used to being part of a family again, and it made him happy.
But within two months of Neal's arrival, Nick noticed that something was wrong. One afternoon, Nick was surprised to see Marie come home early from work, a sullen Neal in tow. Nick was in his room doing his homework, and had been yelled at often enough for eavesdropping that he wouldn’t succumb to the temptation to go and see what was going on, but voices floated up the stairs to his ears, and he wasn’t sure what they meant.
“…control it,” Marie was saying.
“… don’t want it!”
“…not a choice, Neal!”
Then Neal was walking purposefully towards the front door, and Nick heard him say loudly, “I’m not like my dad and I never will be!” before slamming the door behind him.
Nick ran to the top of the stairs, alarmed. “Aunt Marie! What’s going on!”
“Just the family business, darling. Go and finish your homework.” Her voice was tight, bitter, but Nick wasn’t sure if she was angrier with Neal or herself. He could see the tears glistening in her eyes, though. He didn’t know what she was talking about and was afraid to ask.
Neal didn’t come home for dinner, and he wasn’t home the next morning, either. Nick could feel the tension and worry coming off of Marie like a living, breathing thing, but she didn’t talk to him about it. She made him go to school, and picked him up that afternoon, too, and when they got home, it was to find Neal in the kitchen, making them all spaghetti and meatballs, Nick’s favorite.
When she saw him, Marie strode up to Neal and wrapped him in a fierce hug, whispering into his ear things that Nick could not hear. When they parted, Neal seemed to be resigned to something, his head hanging, but he nodded to Marie as she spoke in a low voice to him, her hand on his arm. They parted, and Nick didn’t miss the tears in both their eyes.
----
Neal stayed with them another ten months before he ran away. During that time, he and Marie always arrived home at the same time - he’d been playing basketball in the winter and baseball in the spring, and Marie would pick him up from practice every day. But for some reason, Nick was never invited to his games, and Marie never went either.
One day, Nick came home to find them both loading some strange cases and boxes into the trunk of Marie’s car. “What’s going on?”
Marie looked surprised to see him, but quickly covered. “Just donating some old junk for the white elephant sale at the church tonight,” she said, not really looking at him.
“Yeah, I’m gonna… help carry it,” Neal said nervously and made a beeline for the passenger seat.
“Can I come help?” Nick asked.
“No, honey - it won’t take long, and I know you have that math test tomorrow to study for. There’s leftover fried chicken for your dinner, and Mrs. Addison will be over to sit with you later - we’ll be home late.” She walked up to him and hugged him tightly, kissed him on top of his head as he squirmed away. “I love you,” she said.
“Love you, too,” he said and watched her get in the car and back out of the driveway. They were around the corner before he remembered that they didn’t belong to any church.
Later that night, Nick woke sensing that something was not right - someone was in his room. He propped himself up on his elbows and whispered. “N-Neal? Is that you?”
“Yeah, it is. Sorry for wakin’ ya, Nicky,” Neal said. He was sitting in Nick’s desk chair. “You should go back to sleep.”
Nick sank back on his pillow. “OK.”
Nick thought it was strange for Neal to be sitting in his room, watching him sleep, but somehow it made him feel safe, and he felt like it was something Neal needed too.
The next morning, Nick woke to find a drawing of himself sitting on his desk. In it, he was sleeping peacefully, and he figured Neal had done it, maybe the night before by the light of the full moon. He ran his fingers over the pencil strokes, wondering if he’d ever be as good as his cousin. When he went down to breakfast, he found Marie sitting at the kitchen table with a note in her hands, shaking.
“What’s that?” Nick asked, a feeling of foreboding settling in his stomach, making him want to puke.
“He’s gone.”
Nick said nothing, merely ran up to Neal's room and saw the truth of her words. Neal's bed was still made - he’d never slept in it. The small duffel he’d had when he arrived was also gone, as were most of his clothes, and the pack of playing cards he’d used to teach Nick tricks. Piled on top of his desk were his art supplies with a Post-It note on which he’d written, You’ve got a real talent - keep practicing - Neal
xXxXxXxXx
“Cousin?” Peter said, avidly looking from Neal to Nick and back again.
“Cousin?” Hank echoed.
“Cousin,” Neal confirmed, addressing Peter, but keeping his eyes on Nick.
“Well, now, isn’t that nice?” Renard said unenthusiastically. “I’ll leave you to your reunion, then.” With that, he left the room.
“How long’s it been, Cuz?” Nick said, his voice clipped.
“Seventeen years.”
“Seventeen years.” Nick pressed his lips together in a tight line, and breathed through his nose, obvious to anyone who saw him that he was angry. “Wow, it seems like only yesterday that you left Portland.”
“Can we talk about this later, Nicky? We’ve got a case to present.”
Nick flinched at the childhood nickname - and so did Neal for having let it slip. Nick pulled a chair out so forcefully that its arms rattled against the underside of the table. He sat down, opened up his notebook and began to click the plunger on his pen incessantly. “Present,” he ordered.
Peter and Hank took their seats reluctantly, each man not knowing what to make of the tension between their partners. Neal fired up his presentation and reviewed the details of their case - the initial crime that brought it to their attention, followed by the long investigation, the task force, the eventual bust.
“The bust went down six months ago, resulting in the arrests of six of the Lonely Hearts organization’s known associates, and the death of another. However, the ring’s leader, known only as ‘M,’ escaped.”
“How?” Hank asked, completely riveted by the details of the case and taking careful notes.
“She… got past…” Neal stammered.
“She exploited a weakness in our perimeter and eluded capture,” Peter finished for him.
“What makes you think this is the same woman here?” Nick challenged.
“Your cases, while different on the face of it, bear striking similarities,” Neal answered. “We think that M has set up shop here in Portland, and that your cases are just the tip of the iceberg.”
“What do you mean we think?” Nick said. “This is all your theory, Neal, right?”
“It is.”
“Since when does the FBI take direction on cases from convicted felons?” Nick challenged.
Neal's face blanched at the rebuke and Peter stood up. “Neal's a valued member of my team. His analysis and conclusions are solid.”
“But he’s an ex-con?” Hank asked, eyebrows raised. He looked at Neal with hooded eyes, suspicious.
“I am,” Neal replied, since there was no denying it.
“These people were responsible for the deaths of nearly two dozen people over the course of four years back in New York, and it looks like it’s starting all over again here,” Peter pointed out. “Do you want to let something as trivial as Neal's status get in the way of bringing this woman to justice?”
“Well, you apparently don’t have a problem with it,” Nick pointed out sarcastically.
“Maybe I’d better go and get another coffee,” Neal said, and left the room.
“Look, I don’t know what happened between you two when you were kids,” Peter said to Nick, filling the silence left by Neal's departure, “but Neal has worked hard for me, and has helped close cases - important cases, and it’s earned him a spot on my team. Maybe you’re in need of some sort of proof, Detective Burkhardt, but I’m not.”
“Clearly,” Nick replied, getting to his feet as well. “But he cut and run on me when I was thirteen years old, so you’ll have to forgive me if I can’t trust him immediately.”
Peter paused; this information about Neal was news to him - Neal had always been very guarded about his life before the age of 18. But any other attempt to defend Neal became secondary as Renard entered the room with a slip of paper in his hand. “We’ve got another possible Sleeping Beauty victim,” he said, handing the paper with the address on it to Nick.
Peter’s shoulders tensed and he ran his hand across his chin. “Sleeping Beauty?” he inquired of Hank.
“You’ll see.”
----
The victim, Tina Corbett, was a woman in her mid-30s, a librarian at the main branch of the city’s public library. She was lying alone in a bed in the ICU, not far from their previous victim, Mark Henderson. Nick found Dr. Patel to question her about the woman’s condition. “I’m afraid she’s just like the others,” she informed him.
“How does this keep happening?”
“I wish I could tell you, but I don’t know, Detective. Look, there are maybe two dozen cases of locked-in syndrome in this country in a year, and we’ve had four in less than three months, in one city. My boss thinks we should be calling the CDC.”
“That would cause a panic.”
“I don’t disagree, but I don’t think it’s an infectious disease causing it. If we can’t find the cause, we’ll have a full investigation on our hands.” She walked away to tend to the victim, and Nick watched her go.
“I know what the cause is,” came a voice from behind Nick. He turned to find Neal there, standing with his hands in his pockets.
“Oh, you do? Then why haven’t you said anything?”
“It’s complicated.”
“Complicated,” Nick repeated, his tone sarcastic, angry.
Neal pulled a folded-up piece of paper from his pocket and handed it to Nick. “Our kind of complicated,” he said and walked away.
Nick unfolded the paper and on it he saw that Neal had sketched a very detailed picture of what could only be called a gorgon. The face was hideous, with a large, squashed nose, tiny, burning eyes and a forked tongue. Emerging from the hair on its head were several writhing snakes of various sizes, some of which he’d depicted wrapped around the creature’s neck and throat. Nick shuddered at the image - none of the depictions of Wesen in his Aunt’s trailer could surpass it for its lifelike detail.
And then he realized what this meant, and he looked up with shock at the retreating back of his cousin.
Neal was a Grimm too.
----
They reconvened in the morning; Peter wanted to get a look into the latest victim’s records, to see if there was anything suspicious, and since no one had any other ideas, they were all seated around the conference room table, pitching in.
“Boy, it’s like no matter where we are, it all comes down to going through financial records with a fine-toothed comb,” Neal snarked, draining his coffee cup.
“Top two motives for crimes are money and sex,” Hank pointed out. “Some things never change.”
“Seems to me they’re getting sloppy,” Neal said thoughtfully.
“What do you mean?” Peter asked.
“Well, in New York, these were careful, meticulous crimes. They flew under the radar, you know? Most of the victims seemed to have died of natural causes. But now - two victims in a week? Something’s changed, maybe.”
“Could be,” Hank said, warming to the idea. “You said that in New York, there was an entire network of people involved, right?”
“Yes - we arrested six, but those were just the lieutenants. We suspect the organization dissolved after that due to a lack of leadership,” Peter replied.
“So what if they’re just desperate? They don’t have the same support network as before.”
“Maybe they just need operating capital,” Neal said, half-joking.
“Don’t laugh, that may be it,” Peter said. “Maybe Portland is temporary - they just need to get in, make a few hundred grand, get out, maybe move on to a larger city. The victimology is the same - just the speed of the operation has increased.”
“It may explain why we’re discovering the victims earlier than in New York - less people working the scam means less time and attention paid,” Hank said.
“And it means we have witnesses we can question,” Nick pointed out.
“How?” Peter asked. “They’re paralyzed.”
“But their eyes aren’t. Dr. Patel explained it to me yesterday.”
“I think you’re on to something,” Peter replied. “Why don’t you talk to the doctor - see if we can question the victims?”
“Someone should talk to the librarian’s family - they hadn’t been notified as of last night,” Hank pointed out.
“Why don’t you and I handle that?” Peter suggested. “Neal - you can go with Nick to the hospital.”
Neal looked at Peter sharply, but his partner’s poker face was firmly in place. “Oh. Yes. Sure,” Neal said unenthusiastically.
Hank, for his part, didn’t hide his delight at forcing the two cousins to interact. “Sounds like a great idea.”
“Grab your hat,” Nick said tersely and left the room.
----
Neal followed Nick out of the building and to his car, an old Toyota Land Rover parked across the street. Nick had been quiet all morning, much more subdued since Neal had given him the drawing of the Wesen he’d encountered back in New York all those months ago. The image still had the power to make Neal shudder, though it didn’t fill him with the terror it had when he’d dropped the ball and let their suspect slip past him. Seeing her full Wesen visage had been a shock - not only because he so very rarely saw Wesen in New York, but also because he wasn’t going to take any chances that the Greek myths about gorgons might hold a grain of truth. If one glance could turn a person to stone, however unlikely he now thought that to be, at the time he had no data to go on.
But now, Nick wouldn’t look at him. Correction: Nick wouldn’t look at him if he thought Neal could see him do it, and Neal knew it was because he had never considered that Neal himself had inherited the family curse. And Neal definitely considered being a Grimm to be a curse - a vestige of a time and a heritage he wanted nothing to do with.
Nick unlocked the passenger door for him, and they both got in. “You’re a Grimm,” he said at last, apropos of nothing. Neal didn’t know if it sounded more like a statement or an accusation.
“Yes, I am. So are you.”
“How did you know?”
“I assumed as much when I heard Marie died. I’m sorry to have heard that, by the way.”
“Yeah, thanks for the card.”
Neal sighed and closed his eyes. He’d always regretted how he left, and didn’t expect Nick to understand, or to forgive him - but it was still hard to be the target of such resentment.
They drove on in silence for several minutes, Nick glancing at him sideways from time to time.
“What?” Neal finally prompted.
“That creature you drew -you ever seen one before this case?”
Neal shook his head, then realized something. “I suppose you’ve inherited all of Marie’s books and whatnot?”
“Whatnot,” he said. Marie had both inherited and accumulated a treasure trove of Wesen lore, Grimm diaries, weapons, potions and other arcana that she’d left to Nick when she died. All of it was housed in a trailer he kept under an assumed name in a trailer park on the edge of town.
“How good a look did you get at it?”
“Too good. It - she - was horrifying, the stuff of nightmares. One look and it was like I lost all reason. Something inside broke, just for a second and I was just - useless. When Peter said earlier that she’d exploited a weakness in our perimeter? I was that weakness. I just - shut down. It’s never happened to me before.”
Nick furrowed his eyebrows. “I’ve never heard of that. Maybe it’s something to do with how she disables her victims - just like Medusa.”
“What, one look and she turns a man to stone? I don’t believe it.”
“Neither do I, but something’s paralyzing our victims and we need to find a way to stop it. Until we come up with something better, that’s my going theory.”
They drove for a few more minutes until they pulled up to a tidy Cape Cod on a quiet street near a park. “Is this where Marie’s stuff is?” Neal asked.
Nick smiled. “It’s where the index is.”
The sound of cello music drifted down the walk as they made their way to the front door. Nick rang the bell and a tall, bearded man answered after a few seconds. He wore a bulky, hand-knit cardigan over a green flannel shirt with brown corduroys and work boots. A more non-descript man Neal could not imagine; his immediate impression was, “college professor.”
“Nick, hey, how surprising to see you,” he said, deadpan, leaning against the door’s frame. Neal couldn’t conceal a smirk - he recognized the manner of a man who may or may not be cooperating with law enforcement voluntarily. The man’s eyes flickered over to Neal and he straightened up, mindful of his manners.
“Monroe, this is my cousin Neal. Neal, my friend Monroe.”
“Oh, hey,” Monroe said, proffering a hand to Neal to shake. “Any family of Nick’s and et cetera. You in town long?” He gestured for them to come in, closed the door and led them to the living room. Neal noticed there were an inordinate amount of clocks in every room - decorating the walls, the shelves. Either Monroe was a collector or an obsessive. Then he noticed the workbench in a small room off the living room, his tiny jeweler’s instruments and other tools, and concluded that Monroe must be a clockmaker.
“Not sure, actually,” Neal answered hesitantly; he wasn’t sure how much of the investigation he ought to share with this person.
“Neal works for the FBI, and is in town to consult on a case.”
“Really?” Monroe said avidly. “Wow, just - I have so many questions.”
“Well, how about we start with some answers?” Nick said, pulling the drawing Neal had given him earlier out of his pocket.
Monroe unfolded the paper and gasped. As he caught sight of the image there, his facial features twisted and morphed before Neal's eyes. His ears elongated and pointed, fur sprouted out all over those parts of his body that were exposed, his nose became broader and flatter, his eyes larger, red, menacing, like a werewolf.
Neal blanched and dropped into a defensive stance. “Holy shit, you’re a Blutbad!” he cried, pointing.
Monroe shook his head and his face changed back to its normal, mild - and human - expression, but he pointed at Neal. “Holy shit, you’re a Grimm?”
Both men looked at Nick for an explanation. Nick held his hands up, fingers spread. “Hold on, hold on, let me explain.” He paused, and both men looked at him with wide eyes and what-the-fuck expressions. “Monroe, Neal is from that side of my family. And Neal, Monroe is a Weider Blutbad.”
“Weider? Really? I’ve never actually met one. How do you manage, you know, the urges?”
“I have a regimen.”
“And you’re allied with Nick? Aren’t you getting grief for that?”
“Like you’ve no idea. So, another Grimm in law enforcement - this run in the family too?”
“Well… I came to the FBI through a circuitous route.”
“Neal is an ex-con and a consultant to the White Collar crime division in New York,” Nick explained.
“White Collar crime? What’s that got to do with homicide?”
Nick pointed at the drawing Monroe still held. “That does. Whoever it is left a trail of bodies in New York and Neal and his partner followed that trail here.”
“Well, I guess it doesn’t surprise me, come to think of it. Todesblicke have traditionally been on the grift, and believe me, you don’t want to run up against them.”
“Todesblicke?”
“Back in the day, they used to roam the countryside robbing unsuspecting travelers and merchants. They consider it their lifestyle - like a birthright. What’s this one done?”
“Mostly insurance and inheritance fraud - they befriend a victim and somehow contrive to change their wills or beneficiaries,” Neal explained.
“Beats late night raids and killings, I suppose,” Monroe said. “These are dangerous dudes, you know? People don’t tend to survive an encounter.”
“How do they attack?” Nick asked.
“I’m not sure, but if their PR is to be believed, one glance turns you to stone. I’d have to look into it a bit.”
“Up for some research time in the trailer?” Nick asked.
“You kidding? Of course.” Monroe seemed as excited by this as a kid on Christmas.
Nick tossed him a key. “We’ll meet you there. In the meantime, we’re going to go and question the victims.”
----
“Dr. Patel,” Nick called out to the neurologist he’d seen too much of over the last few weeks.
She turned and greeted him with a tired smile. “Detective Burkhardt, good morning.” She eyed Neal with interest.
“This is Neal Caffrey, with the FBI,” he introduced his cousin diffidently. “Doctor, something you said yesterday made me think of something - the victims can move their eyes, yes?”
“When they are lucid, yes, they can voluntarily move their eyes.”
“Can they communicate, then? I mean, do you suppose we could question them?”
“I’m not sure if that’s going to get you far, Detective, but I’d be willing to allow it.” She led them to the entrance to the ICU and over to Tina Corbett’s tiny room, pausing just outside. “Please be patient and friendly - her cardiac system has been compromised severely, and I don’t want her upset. Ask yes or no questions only, and if I say stop, you must stop. Are we clear?”
Nick nodded and Dr. Patel led them into the room. “Miss Corbett, these men are with the police, and they’d like to ask you a few questions about what happened to you. When you answer, I’d like you to blink once for yes, and two times for no. Is that clear?”
Blink
“Detective?” Dr. Patel motioned for Nick to come closer.
Nick swallowed and stepped up to Tina Corbett; she was a tiny woman, athletic, with dark, wavy hair and large brown eyes. Nick knew she was in her mid-30’s, but she looked a dozen years younger - and afraid. His heart broke to have to question her. “Hi, Miss Corbett, my name is Nick, and this is Neal. We are looking into the circumstances surrounding your illness, do you understand?”
Blink
“Good. Had you been ill prior to this?”
Blink-Blink
“Did someone attack you?”
Blink-Blink
“Any strange people following you or talking to you?”
Blink-Blink
Neal took a step forward and smiled down at her, took her hand in his and began to stroke a fingertip down the back of her hand. “I know this is hard, but there are others who have had the same thing happen. Are you sure that someone didn’t do this to you?”
Blink
“Have you seen anything that you couldn’t explain? No matter how strange or out-there, Miss Corbett - anything at all?”
Her eyes flickered away from him toward the doctor for a second.
“Any snakes?” Neal asked quietly.
Miss Corbett’s heart rate spiked suddenly, as well as her blood pressure, and Neal dropped her hand as if he’d hurt her. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry!” he said.
Dr. Patel laid a hand on Miss Corbett’s forehead and kept an eye on the readouts on the monitor above her bed. “No, no, it’s OK, Mr. Caffrey. But I’d say the questioning is through for the morning.”
They were closing the door behind them when a red light began flashing above the door to a nearby room and several people rushed over to deal with it, including Dr. Patel.
“Shit!” Nick said, following, but keeping his distance so as not to get in the way of any medical personnel.
“What is it?” Neal asked.
“That’s Mark Henderson’s room - the last victim,” Nick turned in place and then began pacing. Neal watched in horror as the doctor and nurses tried to revive Henderson, but their efforts proved ultimately to be in vain. Nick didn’t wait for Dr. Patel to come out and tell them what was very obvious, so he turned and left, Neal on his heels. “That’s three!” he muttered as he headed for the elevators. “Three!” He jabbed at the down button vehemently.
“I’m sorry,” Neal said mournfully.
“Yeah, well, you should be.”
“What was that?”
“Nothing.”
“No, it was something. Tell me what you really think, Nick.”
“I don’t think you want to hear it.”
“Maybe I do. Maybe you don’t want to say it!” Neal was agitated now, goading Nick.
Nick didn’t answer, just breathed heavily through his nostrils.
“This is all my fault,” Neal said. “Isn’t that what you think? If I hadn’t choked in New York, three innocent people in Portland wouldn’t be dead, with one soon to follow.”
“I didn’t say that.”
“But you were thinking it. Well, believe me, so do I!”
Nick opened his mouth to reply when his phone rang and he pulled it from his pocket. “What?!” he barked in answer.
“Hey, dude, no need to tear my head off,” Monroe said at the other end.
“Monroe, sorry, but our third victim just died.”
“Oh. I’m sorry to hear that. But listen, I found a few entries on Todesblicke, and I’ve got something useful - you should come take a look. I know how they kill.”
“We’ll be there in twenty minutes.”
----
Elizabeth.Burke: Hi hon!
AgentPeterBurke: Hi hon - gosh I miss you.
Elizabeth.Burke: Aww, but you’ve only been gone a day.
AgentPeterBurke: I can’t miss you after a day?
Elizabeth.Burke: I suppose so, but I’m sure it’s not too trying - you do have Neal with you to distract.
AgentPeterBurke: I think Neal's got his own distractions. I just met his cousin!
Elizabeth.Burke: Say that again?!
AgentPeterBurke: Neal has a cousin here in Portland, and he’s the lead detective on the case we’re working.
Elizabeth.Burke: I don’t even know what to say to that.
AgentPeterBurke: Neither do I. He’s so close-lipped about his past, I just assumed there was no one. Apparently, he lived here at some point when he was young.
Elizabeth.Burke: He’ll tell you all about it in his own time and his own way. You know him.
AgentPeterBurke: Yes, unfortunately I do. Look, I should go - there’s been another victim and I’m waiting for a court order to come through any minute.
Elizabeth.Burke: Sure thing. Love you. Love to Neal.
AgentPeterBurke: Love you too, hon.
“Something interesting come up?” Hank asked; he handed Peter a cup of coffee and sat down across from him.
“Just Skype-ing with my wife,” Peter said sheepishly, closing the lid on his laptop. “You married?”
“A few times,” Hank said ruefully. “I am currently unattached.”
“Ah.”
“How long you been married?”
“Going on fifteen years
“Sounds like a good run,” Hank said with a smile. “Speaking of good runs, have you and Neal been partners long?”
“Almost four years,” Peter said. “They haven’t all been as easy as my marriage.” Hank raised his eyebrows - marriage was far from an easy thing in his experience. “And you?”
“Just over three, since Nick was promoted from anti-crime. I raised him from a pup.”
Peter laughed. “I could say the same thing about Neal.”
“So, does the Bureau make it a habit of pairing agents with ex-cons?”
“They made a special exception with Neal. For a time, he was serving out his sentence under my supervision, as a consultant and Confidential Informant. He’d lend his… special talents to our investigations in exchange for his relative freedom. We closed some pretty major cases together. When his sentence was commuted, he joined the team full time.”
“Still, it’s kind of odd…”
Peter shrugged. “Maybe, but I trust him with my life. Which doesn’t explain him holding back about having family here in Portland!” He finally indulged his need to gossip. “What about that - I got the impression you were as surprised as I was yesterday that Neal and Nick are related.”
“You got that right. Nick’s pretty easy to get along with, but he’s not very open about his past. Until yesterday, an aunt was the only relative I’d heard of, but she died just a few months ago.”
“That’s a shame - I was hoping to meet more of Neal’s family, get some insight into his past. He’s very protective of it for some reason.”
“Must run in the family. We should compare notes sometime.”
“Heh, yeah. Speaking of silence, you heard from Nick yet?”
A concerned expression crossed Hank’s face. “No, which has been a problem lately. The man seems to prefer leaping over looking lately.”
“Another thing that runs in the family,” Peter added ruefully.
Hank’s phone chimed as he got an email. “Shit,” he muttered under his breath.
“What is it?”
“Mark Henderson just died. That’s death number three. If we don’t hear from that insurance company soon, I will personally go to their offices and open their files myself.”
A chime on Peter’s phone indicated another email had arrived. “You won’t have to - here’s the information. Tina Corbett bought a $500,000 life insurance policy three months ago. The beneficiary is a Marnie Dickenson.”
“That’s the girlfriend, I think,” Hank pointed out. “She never did show up at the hospital yesterday. I think it’s time we asked her a few questions.”
----
Nick pulled up outside the trailer and got out of the car almost before the engine had stopped. The tension between he and Neal was a palpable thing, and he needed to put some distance between them, if only for a second. The confrontation with Neal at the hospital had done little to alleviate his frustration with this case. He didn’t blame Neal for letting the Todesblick escape, not really, but his cousin’s admission made him feel uncomfortable to be near him, and knowing that his words had hurt Neal didn’t make it better. He supposed he’d need to hash it out with Neal sooner or later, but for right now, his vote was for “later.”
He opened the door to the trailer, Neal right behind him, and found Monroe sitting at the desk poring over one of the thick volumes of Grimm diaries his aunt had left behind.
“Oh, you’re here,” Monroe said by way of greeting.
Nick noted his messed-up hair and pent-up energy, which was Monroe for, “I’ve got something big.” “What did you find?”
“These Todesblicke are bad news, man. I mean, we knew that, but look here.” He pointed at a drawing of a Todesblick attacking a man; in it, the creature loomed over him, tiny lines emanating out of its body toward him. The victim was crouched on the ground, cowering. “Apparently, they emit a natural pheromone that acts almost like a concentrated shot of epinephrine to the body.”
“The fear hormone?” Neal asked.
“Yeah, only instead of eliciting a fight or flight response, it strikes the victim with a paralyzing fear.”
Nick glanced at Neal and their eyes locked for an instant. That would explain Neal’s reaction to “M” when he’d confronted her. He was lucky to have survived at all.
“Is that what causes the muscular paralysis?” Neal asked.
Monroe turned the pages and searched fruitlessly. “It isn’t clear, but it says that Todesblicke bring the ‘trostloses Dasein’ - literally, a kind of a living death.”
“I’d say that sums up our victims pretty well,” Nick concluded. “Does it say anything about fighting it? Killing it?”
“Just the usual - cut off its head. There are a few more spectacular drawings for that too, but I’ll spare you.”
“So how am I supposed to get close enough to cut off its head if it can paralyze people with fear?”
“Ah, there’s the rub. But it’s a pheromone, so maybe if you don’t breathe it in?”
“Oh, that’s practical.”
Monroe just shrugged.
Part 2