Valknut: The Binding, page 12
James Tuttle. The name nagged at Briggs’s memory, but he couldn’t place it without more information. He checked his e-mail impatiently. Nothing yet. He thumped the screen, willing a message to appear. The police were supposed to send him whatever NCIC had on the guy. He hated being at the mercy of other people’s priorities, but his caboose office wasn’t considered secure enough to house its own NCIC terminal. He’d have to wait.
He took a swig of coffee and reached for the nearest stack of files, thinking he might as well catch up on some paperwork. His cell phone rang before he could get started.
“Briggs here.”
“This case has just gotten a whole lot weirder.”
“Parker?”
“Yeah, it’s me.” The FBI agent sounded agitated. “I checked into that Butterfly Killer case you told me about. It’s real, all right. Unsolved, too. The killer didn’t leave any more evidence back in ‘42 than the Hobo Spider gives us now.”
“Damn.” As if this case wasn’t slippery enough. “It can’t be the same guy. An old geezer might have been able to catch one person by surprise, but we’ve got fourteen victims, here. Some of them are young guys.”
“Yeah, well that’s not all. That article you found didn’t tell you everything. Guess what kind of knife the Butterfly Killer used.”
Briggs blinked away images of a black handle protruding from Peter Olson’s bloody face. He grimaced. “You gonna make me say it?”
“Black-handled, bronze blade, just like our friendly, neighborhood Hobo Spider. I put in a request for evidence on the Butterfly Killer case. If they kept any of that cord around, I’ll get it tested.”
Something thumped on the roof of the caboose. Briggs started and looked at the ceiling. Idiot squirrels. “What if it comes out the same? It’s going to be hell cross-referencing our case against events that happened seventy years ago.”
“Yeah, I might wish you’d never made the connection, but it’s not like we have so many leads.”
“There’s that. But we do have one other. AFIS came back with a name on that latent.”
Whatever had landed on the roof seemed to be hopping around, scratching at the metal. It left the roof with a scrape and something black fluttered past the window. A bird, then. A big one. He returned his gaze to the computer screen. An e-mail had arrived from the DMPD. “I’m about to check his criminal records. I’ll let you know where they take me.”
“Somewhere better than this, I hope.”
“No shit.”
Briggs hung up and leaned close to the screen. “Okay, Mr. Tuttle—let’s see what kind of history you have.”
Tuttle was in the system, but barely. No outstanding warrants, no convictions, not even a parking ticket. But his sister had reported him missing and mentally handicapped two days ago.
And there was a photograph.
Briggs sat back and whistled. He did know the guy. He called himself “Jungle Jim.” A gentle fellow, though a bit goofy and definitely on the slow side. The expression “toys in the attic” might have been invented just for him. But Briggs had liked him. No way in hell could he be the killer. It just didn’t fit. And yet…
This was the second time Jungle Jim Tuttle had been at the crime scene of a Hobo Spider murder. What were the odds of that, if he wasn’t connected in some way?
Briggs remembered the day he had met Jungle Jim. It was early last fall. Summer had made a comeback, and the sun beat down on the Des Moines yards with enough heat to grill a hotdog on a rail. A foreman had called Briggs at the end of a long shift. He had found a body. From the sound of it, another victim of the Hobo Spider. Briggs was the first lawman on scene.
A slaughterhouse smell met him before he reached the boxcar. He gagged and held his handkerchief over his mouth and nose after he climbed on board. He stayed just inside the door and studied the scene, taking care not to move his feet or touch anything.
FBI reports from earlier cases had called the Hobo Spider murders “vaguely ritualistic.” To Briggs, alone in the boxcar, staring at the thickened, red trails flowing from the victim’s mouth like a macabre stream of consciousness, it looked like a blatant attempt to communicate with some grotesque god.
Blood coated the victim’s chin and neck, but the cord that wrapped the body remained pristinely white. Flies covered the pool of blood drying on the floor and buzzed around the head, but not one landed on the cord.
Sweat stung Briggs’s eyes. He wiped it away with his sleeve. The inside of the boxcar was even hotter than the outside and the body was degrading rapidly. Even so, it didn’t seem possible that a fresh corpse could stink so much. His stomach churned. The smell reminded him of the time his dog had gotten loose and rolled in the carcass of a dead raccoon.
When the singing started outside, he gladly jumped out to see who it was. The hot breeze felt cool on his face. He pulled the handkerchief away and gulped air, clearing the smell from his nose.
A man wandered toward him down a siding, his cheeks rosy from the sun. He wore a battered fedora and an ill-fitting suit. His worn leather shoes looked much too large. He belted out his song in an absurdly beautiful tenor, adding a skip to his walk in time with the music. All he needed was a bindle on a stick and he might have stepped out of a Norman Rockwell painting.
The innocence of the man and the pure joy in his song contrasted jarringly with the horror inside the boxcar. There was a sense of evil and light in such close proximity that Briggs felt an irrational fear that darkness might ooze from the boxcar and overwhelm the guy. He knew with sudden certainty that he had to keep this one safe, at least.
The hobo strolled past Briggs, whistling now, with his hands stuffed in his pants pockets. His shoes had bicycle reflectors duct-taped to their heels.
“Hey, wait a minute.” Briggs hurried after him. The hobo turned, unsurprised, though Briggs could have sworn the hobo hadn’t seen him.
“Oh, it’s you.” The hobo smiled as though he had known Briggs all of his life. Normally, Briggs would have written the guy up for trespassing. Hobos were a danger to themselves and to others. But this time the idea never occurred to him. Instead, Briggs brought him back to the office to cool off, and fed him a Coke and a day-old donut. The man said his name was Jungle Jim and started babbling about his “kids.”
“Oh, they just love my tricks,” he said. “They come from miles all around, they do, when they hear ol’ Jungle Jim’s in town.”
He went on, listing the children he had met and the cities they lived in. Briggs listened, puzzled, until Jungle Jim hauled his duffle bag onto his lap and began demonstrating an amazing array of props. There was a garish, over-sized bow tie that twirled at the tug of a string. There were silk flowers that disappeared into a narrow tube. There was a fake hand, presumably for handshaking, a rattlesnake that looked distressingly real, and a jar of Mexican jumping beans. Jungle Jim was either insane, or he was a performer of some kind. Possibly both. Either way, Briggs found that he liked the hobo a great deal. He couldn’t let him ride the trains.
“So, where are you heading, Jim?” If it wasn’t too far, Briggs could spring for a bus ticket.
“On up to Minni,” Jungle Jim said around a bite of donut. Powdered sugar ringed his mouth. “My friend, Bill—he’s a bull up there in that University yard. It’s Ashley’s birthday. She’s his daughter. I got her an itty bitty doll house with ittier bittier people inside.”
Suddenly it all made sense. Briggs had heard about the Minneapolis yard worker who got his brains scrambled saving a bull’s life. He had become sort of an unofficial mascot to the FRC Railroad Company. This had to be the guy—there couldn’t be two like him. Might as well let him ride the train and save the bus fare. The engineer would probably let him sit up front. He’d be safe enough up there.
Briggs escorted Jungle Jim to a train bound for Minneapolis, made up and ready to leave. The engineer grinned when he saw Jungle Jim and offered him a seat. The roar of the idling engine made conversation difficult, so Briggs just waved and turned to go. A tap on his shoulder stopped him. He looked back into Jungle Jim’s face. Something about the hobo’s eyes had changed, grown clearer, and his expression had grown serious.
“Don’t feel bad, Harcourt.” Briggs heard him clearly over the noise, though Jungle Jim didn’t appear to be shouting. “I know you’re gonna do your best. There’s just nuthin’ you or anyone can do.”
And then he was gone, back inside the unit. Briggs considered following him up the stairs to find out what he meant, but the engine shifted louder, shaking the ground beneath his feet. Briggs stepped back and watched it pull away, but all he could think about was the strange stillness in Jungle Jim’s eyes.
He hadn’t seen Jungle Jim since. The presence of his fingerprints on a murder weapon worried him. If he wasn’t the killer, he could be a witness and therefore the next target. Briggs had to find him, and quickly. Assuming he was still alive.
That left one problem: How to find Jungle Jim. People vanished on the iron road every day, intentionally or otherwise. It could take weeks to track him down. He might never find him at all.
Briggs reviewed everything he knew about the hobo, starting with the fact that he wasn’t really a hobo at all. He was a clown. If he remembered rightly, Jim’s “kids” came from Midwestern cities in FRC railroad territory. A company man, even after he quit working for the company.
He pulled his keyboard closer. After a quick search, he found three festivals occurring this weekend in FRC Railroad territory: The Britt Draft Horse Show in Iowa, the Greater Midwest Railroad Days in Minneapolis, and Pioneer Days in Altoona, Kansas. All three had web sites, none of which listed Jungle Jim as an attraction. But that didn’t mean he wouldn’t show up.
Briggs ignored a growing sense of futility and studied the FRC Railroad map plastered on his office wall. Thirteen red pushpins dotted the map. He added a fourteenth close to Topeka. Not that the location of the victims meant anything. Most of them were found on train cars and may have traveled for days before discovery.
But it was clear that, like Jungle Jim, the Hobo Spider showed a preference for FRC Railroad.
Britt, Minneapolis, Altoona. Which one?
Britt was popular with the hobos, but it seemed unlikely that a clown would perform at a horse show. So…Altoona or Minneapolis?
Six of the bodies had been found in Minneapolis—two of them off-train in rail yards. Minneapolis was the biggest hub for the FRC Railroad. Maybe it was the Hobo Spider’s personal hub, too.
He reached for the phone, ready to call the Minneapolis police. Then he sighed and let his hand drop to the desk. He drummed his fingers. This was ridiculous. There could be a dozen festivals within 90 miles of Minneapolis that weren’t advertised on the Internet. Jungle Jim might not even be performing this weekend. Maybe he was shacking up in a cardboard box in Missouri, doing a little fishing on the Mississippi.
He ought to give Parker a call and make use of FBI resources. He should contact the officials of all the likely festivals. He should notify the police departments of cities in the FRC territory…put out an APB on Jungle Jim throughout the region. He should—
“You’d be wastin’ your time, boy.”
Briggs jerked upright. “What the hell?”
He hadn’t heard the door open, hadn’t heard footsteps on the hardwood floor, but a strange old man stood close enough to his desk to brush it with his fingertips. He wore a peaked, wide-brimmed hat over faded red hair. A dark blue overcoat draped over his shoulders like a cloak.
Definitely eccentric. Briggs didn’t have time for this.
“Look, I’m busy. Why don’t you step over to Human Services.” Briggs waved vaguely to the south. “I’m sure someone there can help you.”
The stranger didn’t move. Briggs sighed. So much for the friendly approach. “Scram, Grandpa. I’ve got important phone calls to make.”
The man answered as calmly as if Briggs had politely asked him for clarification. “I said, you’d be wastin’ your time. You wanna find Jungle Jim, there’s only one place t’look.”
Startled, Briggs pushed back from his computer and glowered at the stranger. “How the hell do you know about that?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “I haven’t known about Tuttle for five minutes and you waltz in telling me you know where he is? Look, buddy, I’m in no mood for games. Who are you? What do you know?”
“Enough!” The air crackled around the stranger. His overcoat billowed as if lifted by a stiff wind.
Briggs’s mouth snapped shut. The door must have blown open—it had to be open. He shot a glance at the door. It remained stubbornly closed. Yet the stranger’s coat flapped and his hair fluttered around his face in the perfectly still air.
Reluctantly, Briggs felt his gaze drawn to the man’s heavily lined face, to a single, clear blue eye. He felt its touch like ice on his brain and tried to look away, but couldn’t make his eyes work right. He tried to stand, to reach the phone, to do anything. He couldn’t move. He could only stare into that terrible blue gaze.
“They call me the Wanderer.” The stranger’s voice changed, growing deeper and more formal. “All I ask is that you listen.”
As if Briggs had a choice. He focused all his strength on his right hand, just inches from the upper right desk drawer. He kept a gun there in case someone he was questioning did something unexpected. He couldn’t think of anything more unexpected than this. Except he couldn’t get his hand to move.
“Nice trick, Gandalf,” he growled, “but if you don’t knock it off, I’ll—”
The stranger’s eye flared like blue lightening, stunning Briggs into silence. A blue haze bathed the caboose, softening the file cabinets, the stacks of paper, and the hard edges of Briggs’s desk. It seemed to seep into his very thoughts, softening those as well. Briggs stopped fighting. His muscles relaxed and he forgot whatever empty threats he was about to make.
“Your first instinct was correct,” a voice said. “Jungle Jim is at the festival in Minneapolis. He will be at the hobo moot. If you do not seek him there tonight, he will pass out of your reach forever.”
Caught by that bright orb, Briggs no longer saw the stranger. Memory of the visit evaporated in a blue mist. When he spoke, he was talking to himself.
“Jungle Jim did say he had a friend in Minneapolis.” His tongue felt thick and heavy. “That bull at the University yards. Might be worth checking, anyway.”
The blue faded and disappeared. Briggs was alone in the caboose. As far as he could remember, he’d been alone all morning. He grabbed his train schedule and scanned it for a ride to Minneapolis. There was only one train going out today, slated to leave in twenty minutes. He vaulted from his chair, then clutched his head, suddenly dizzy. He was more exhausted than he had realized.
“Got no time for that.” He grabbed his thermos and, grimacing, chugged the cold dregs of his morning coffee. Poor substitute for a nap. A shower might be nice, but he would have to settle for a clean shirt. He undid the top two buttons of the sweaty, coffee-stained denim shirt that he’d been wearing for forty hours straight, pulled it over his head and threw it in a corner. The bottom drawer of his desk held more clothes than his closet at home. Some of them were even clean. He yanked it open and found a denim shirt, pre-buttoned except for the top two buttons, and gave it a sniff. Not too bad. He pulled it on.
Unlocking another desk drawer, he drew out a .40 caliber semi-automatic. Good, but good enough? He hesitated, then selected a .38 revolver and strapped it to his ankle.
It took him a full minute to find his Kevlar vest, which was hanging on the coat rack under his windbreaker. Ransacking his office, he shoved everything else he might need into a leather grip.
Seven minutes to make the train. That clock had better not be slow.
Outside, wheels shrieked against air brakes. He shoved the grip under his arm and burst through the caboose door. As he turned to lock up, his keys tumbled from nervous fingers and rang down the metal steps to the ground. He stared at them, unmoving.
Wasn’t he going to call someone? Parker?
And hadn’t there been someone…a man in his office?
He turned the handle and slowly opened the door. The room was empty. The phone lines were quiet. But he felt like he was being watched.
A harsh scream sounded behind him. He whipped around and the world flashed blue. A wave of vertigo hit him. He leaned against the doorframe and shook his head to clear it. I must be more tired than I thought. Guess I can sleep on the train.
He scanned the tracks near his caboose. The yard’s grounds were deserted. The cry came again, sounding less human this time. Just a crow or something, he decided, rubbing his temples. Must be nearby, or he would never have heard it over the train noise.
He poked his head back into the caboose. As he had thought, the lights were still on. Good thing he’d checked–they might have stayed on for days. His gaze fell on the wall clock as he reached for the switch. Less than five minutes before departure. He would have to run. He took one last, bemused glance around the room, flicked off the lights, and closed the door.
As he sprinted toward the tracks, a raven took off from the roof of the caboose and began its own journey north.
Chapter 10
Junkyard played pinball as if he were wrestling a steer. He yanked the machine back and forth, bumping and straining against it. The pinball table shook and two of its legs jumped from the floor. Lennie leaned on the bar behind him, wondering if he intended to flip it on its back. She sipped her beer and grinned. She wasn’t sure what effect he was having on the ball, but she sure enjoyed the show.
“You’re lucky that machine’s got a high tilt threshold—if it has one at all.”
She had to shout to be heard, even though she stood less than five feet behind him. A group of college students had gathered around a nearby table to play some kind of drinking game involving dice, a cup, and lots of laughter. Junkyard ignored the noise and slammed his hip against the machine.
