Valknut: The Binding, page 25
Except it was so unfair. How was she supposed to fight a magical evil guy?
“You’ve got to be kidding,” she croaked. If he was so vast and wise, he could fight his own damned battles.
The flashlight flickered, and Red was just Red again, with cigarette in hand and Lennie’s fingers still twisted in his green plaid shirt. He shrugged, and his voice slid back into its comfortable drawl. “Sorry, girl. That’s the way of it. You gotta bind him up, again.”
She scowled. The more he talked, the less she liked him. “Bind him with what? My shoelaces? If my father couldn’t stop him...if you can’t stop him, how can I?”
“I’d love ta stay an’ chat, but a pack of Fenrir’s boys are sniffin’ down your trail this very minute. Maybe the Wolf won’t hurt ya, but those boys ain’t so queasy about it.” He pried her hands from his collar and pushed her toward the door. “You better get on outta here, and fast.”
Even as he spoke, something crashed outside of the box, like a heavy, metal gong hitting the pavement. Too Long Soo let out a shrill stream of curses. Lennie pushed open the cardboard door.
And found herself nose to nose with the most hideous face she had ever seen.
She yelped and sat back, scraping her head on the ceiling. The wavering flashlight lit a man’s red-crusted, snarling face in the doorway. A strip of bloody scalp flapped on his forehead like an ill-fitting toupee.
“Fenrir wants you,” he said, sounding too much like Peter Lorre. “Wants you baaaad, he does.”
His red-rimmed and wild eyes gleamed with a yellow madness that took her breath like a blow to the stomach. Her tattooed hand responded, burning as though lightning bolts wove around her fingers. Static power, ready to discharge—if only she knew how. She stretched her palm toward him, hoping to zap him into an ozone-scented dust cloud.
Nothing happened.
His arm shot in and caught her ankle. Hard fingers ground into her bones, pulling her toward the opening. She clawed at the smooth floor and screamed for Red to help her. There was no answer. Desperate, she stomped her heel into the man’s face. He howled and let go. The box rocked crazily. Sobbing, Lennie slid back against the wall farthest from the door.
That’s when she realized she was alone.
There were no other doors, no openings. Ramblin’ Red was just...gone. The same way he had disappeared from the boxcar.
“Nice timing, Red,” she whispered.
The flashlight flickered one last time and went out.
“Perfect.”
Now the box had become a dark trap. She licked her lips. The scrap of light seeping through the cardboard door brought her no comfort. That creep could wait for her outside for the rest of the night. Hell, he could bring in a pick-up truck and haul her away, box and all.
From the parking lot, Too Long Soo let out a primal scream, more angry than hurt. Harsh voices shouted in a mixture of English and Spanish. Feet scraped and scuffled across pavement. The light in the crack danced and flickered with struggling shadows. There was another crash, and Bones O’Riley’s foul insults punctuated the cacophony.
Lennie felt for the flashlight, found it, and hefted it in her hand. Not much of a weapon. Sweat broke out on her face as she remembered the insanity in her attacker’s eyes. Ramblin’ Red was right—that guy wasn’t a bit queasy about hurting her.
She pressed herself into the corner, every nerve vibrating under her skin. Any second, that hideous face might reappear in that opening, and she wanted to be as far from it as possible.
But the box was only cardboard. With a hollow thump, six inches of sharpened steel sprouted through the wall a finger’s width from her ear. She screamed and recoiled from it. The blade waggled back and forth, withdrawing slowly.
For a moment, she could only stare at the light shining through the new gash in the cardboard. Then she sucked in a breath and threw herself down. In that same instant, the knife struck through the wall where she had been.
She huddled on the floor, trying not to touch the walls, and covered her head with her arms. Hysterical sobs choked her throat. She fought them back, trying to think, but the box shook violently.
“Stop it,” she screamed, hardly knowing what she was saying. “Just stop it!”
The box shook again, harder, and an insane shriek of rage penetrated the cardboard. She lifted her head and saw the dull glint of steel. The knife was stuck in the wall, hung up in the cardboard.
Now might be her only chance to escape.
She gathered her legs under her and eyed the door, but she couldn’t make herself go through. She wasn’t sure she would ever move again. Just sit frozen while that lunatic sliced the box apart around her.
Then Soo howled, in pain this time. The sound struck Lennie like a starting gun. She launched herself through the opening and hit the pavement on her belly, her lower half still inside. She scrambled free and crouched low, ready to lash out.
The jungle was in chaos—the card table overturned with its legs in the air, bags of groceries dumped on the ground, boxes scattered and flattened. The stew pot lay on its side among scattered embers, a muddy lake of mulligan stew puddled around it. Bones O’Riley stood spread-legged before the pot, swinging a piece of firewood like a club. Beside him, Too Long Soo gripped a pop bottle in one hand and a meat fork in the other. Her hat was gone and her hair fanned out from her head like broom straw. A trickle of blood ran from the corner of her eye.
Three gangbangers circled the pair warily. A paint-stained rag hung from the pocket of their leader. The Ragman. He had almost killed Junkyard that morning. Bones and Soo wouldn’t stand a chance.
Lennie crawled through the jungle, trying to stay hidden. Behind her, the crazy man who had attacked her pushed between the boxes, muttering to himself. Every few steps, he cackled and kicked over another box. In just a few seconds, he would find her.
Great. Sandwiched between deadly gangbangers and a homicidal madman. This day just kept getting better and better. She picked up a stray can of beef broth and hefted it. Not much of a weapon, but better than nothing.
One of the gangbangers lunged at Soo. Something flashed in his hand and a gash opened in the lanky singer’s down vest. White feathers bled from the cut and floated away in the wind. Soo swore and struck out, clouting him in the head with the bottle. The gangbanger staggered back, so close to Lennie’s hiding place that she could see the interlocking BRR tattooed on the back of his neck. Lennie surged to her feet and knocked the gangbanger in the back of the head with the beef broth.
He spun around, knife in hand. A snarl twisted his face. “You dead, bitch.”
The knife came down. Lennie raised the can of broth in a desperate attempt to block it, but the blow never came. With a high-pitched scream, the gangbanger arched his back and flung his arms wide. Eyes rolling with pain and panic, he lost his balance and fell on his face. Stunned, Lennie watched him writhe on the pavement, twisting his arms to reach the foot-long meat fork buried in his back. Soo stood over the fallen man, brandishing her Coke bottle. She glared at Lennie.
“What’re y’all standin’ around for? They’re lookin’ fer you, ya nit-brain. Get the hell outta here!”
Another gangbanger came at Soo’s back. Bones O’Riley charged him and cracked the firewood across his head. It worked much better than a can of broth. The thug dropped to the ground, out cold. But that left Bones’s back unprotected. The Ragman lunged at him, knife ready.
“No!” Lennie heaved the can of beef broth at the Ragman, then looked around for another weapon. A hand grabbed her shoulder from behind and spun her around. She staggered against Hotshot’s box. The madman was on her before she could recover. He shoved her against the heavy cardboard and pressed his crazed face close. One eye had swollen shut with a fresh bruise. The other eye bloomed with yellow madness.
“I told you, Fenrir wants you.” He leered hideously and giggled. “And now, Monte’s gonna bring you to him.”
Chapter 19
Junkyard knelt among rain-dampened bushes and watched the home of the bull who had befriended him over the last hellish year. Floodlights glared across the yard, illuminating the police cars in the driveway all too clearly. They had already been there, cherries flashing, when Junkyard arrived. Crime scene tape marked the perimeter of the yard. Not wanting to get entangled with the police, he had hidden in the neighbor's landscaping and watched a stream of people go into Bill Sutter’s house, each checking in with a uniformed officer before entering. So far, no one had come out.
He shifted his weight uneasily, wishing he could see inside. The blinds had been drawn all over the house. The window in the door was too small to reveal much from this distance, but he stared at it anyway, trying to see who moved inside.
It would have been so much simpler if he could have kept both Jim and Lennie with him after the poetry session. But Jim had slipped away, forcing Junkyard to choose one or the other. Now it seemed he wasn’t protecting either one. He didn’t even know if Jim was inside.
For the first time since he had met Jungle Jim, the rage threatened to take control, urging him to forget Jim, forget Lennie, and get down to the business of finding his brother’s killer. He couldn’t do that, though. Jungle Jim needed him too much. And, he realized, swallowing against the ache in his throat, he needed Jim just as badly.
As for Lennie...he didn’t want to think too hard about her. Not yet.
An unsteady breeze stirred the bushes and he fidgeted uncomfortably. With a gentle tink, collected rain splashed onto one of Austin’s buttons—Home is Where the Heart Is. He wiped the water from it with his thumb. Usually, he wore a water resistant windbreaker when it rained and wrapped the denim jacket in plastic. But today wasn’t a usual day.
The front door opened. Junkyard shifted his position for a better view. Mud squished coldly under his knees. A man in a dark jacket and a uniformed police officer stepped from the house and strode toward a white truck parked among the police cars. Talking in low voices, they opened the back of the truck and pulled out a gurney. Junkyard half rose, clenching his jaw so hard it ached. The living weren’t transported to hospital in white trucks.
The wheels of the gurney clattered over the threshold as the men pushed it into the house. Everything seemed to pause after the door closed behind them. Even the wind stilled and the bushes stopped dripping. Junkyard drilled his gaze into the door’s small window. He could see movement, someone’s back, an arm, but no faces.
One gurney, one body.
Junkyard remembered the first time he had visited Bill. He hadn’t been too sure about going to the house of a train yard bull, but Jungle Jim had talked him into it. Bill had come to the door with a smile on his round face and called back over his shoulder, “Ashley—Uncle Jim’s here!”
There was a squeal, and a small, blond streak shot out the door and wrapped itself around Jim’s waist. Bill chuckled and brushed his daughter’s hair with his fingers. “All right, squirt,” he said. “Let the man into the house.”
Then he turned to Junkyard and offered his hand with a smile. Since then, that same hand had been offered every time Junkyard had passed through Minneapolis.
One body. Whose?
The door swung open and the cop backed out, pulling the now-loaded gurney. It stretched into view, revealing a featureless body bag. Junkyard sat back, frustrated. He would know nothing until Briggs chose to tell him. Or he could read it in the morning paper, with everyone else.
The gurney trundled toward the truck, rattling heavily over cracked pavement. One wheel slipped off the edge of the driveway. The gurney tilted precariously. When the men wrenched it back onto the pavement, the body bag’s zipper gaped open at one end. The floodlights shone into the opening, lighting up a shoe as yellow as a small sun.
Gangbangers’ paint. A symbol of fear and hate turned into a thing of innocent delight.
Junkyard gaped at it helplessly. Numbness spread through him. He heard the truck’s doors slam, the engine start. Had he really seen it? That shoe? Maybe he was mistaken...some other shoe...some other person...
The branches above Junkyard rustled, knocking loose a brief downpour. He looked up reflexively, not really caring. The branches swayed, empty but for twigs and leaves silhouetted against the moonlit sky. Then something thumped at his shoulder blade. He jerked, startled out of his shock, and scrambled out from the bushes. A huge, black raven fluttered into the puddle where he had been sitting. A single BB eye glinted at him under the flood lights. Junkyard waved an arm, trying to scare the bird away. It hopped back a few inches and cocked its head for a better look at him.
A truck’s headlights switched on, reminding Junkyard that the bushes no longer hid him. Heedless of the bird, he scooted into cover and watched the the vehicle pull out of the driveway, taking Jungle Jim’s body with it. He felt nine years old again, watching the ambulance drive off with his dying father. But where his father had kept him safe from the outside world, Jungle Jim had kept Junkyard safe from himself.
Who would hold back the shadows now?
The raven plucked at Junkyard’s jacket. Its beak clamped onto one of Austin’s buttons and jerked as though trying to pull it off. Junkyard yanked the button away and swatted at the bird. It fluttered a short distance and cocked its head again. The button hung loose, almost freed from the denim. It said, A friend walks in when the rest of the world walks out.
An image of Lennie popped into his head, so real he wanted to brush the caramel curls back from her face. The bird blared a crow-like, “Caw, caw.” To Junkyard, it sounded more like a harsh, “Go, go,”
Lennie is in danger.
There was no reason to think so, but he knew it, felt it in the petrifying cold that spread through his body. He launched out of the mud and tore through the neighbor’s lawn. Vaulting a low picket fence, he stumbled onto the road and took off at a hard run toward the jungle.
Silent now, the bird scratched in the mud beneath the bushes on Bill Sutter’s lawn and pretended to look for worms. When Detective Harcourt Briggeman exited the house, the bird uttered a soft croak and took off, its black wings slicing into the darkness.
***
Bill Sutter’s house served as a focal point for more than friendship, murder, or even an oversized raven’s sense of timing. The house was a crux where all points, past and future, came together. The unseen were drawn to watch the house, spectators of events transpiring and choices made.
To Ramblin’ Red, sitting in a tree, Jungle Jim’s defiance was a victory, though small and certainly not final.
To Urdie, handbag jingling and snowmobile boots shuffling a block away, Jungle Jim’s death was an omen.
To Fenrir, watching the house from the ink of his own shadow, Jungle Jim’s death meant one less impediment in his path. To Fenrir, Jungle Jim’s death was a signal.
***
“Oh, the times, they are a changin’,” Urdie sang, getting the melody completely wrong. Her needles clacked as she made her way down the sidewalk, incorporating indigo yarn into the work tucked under her arm. Every few stitches, she paused her knitting to run the yarn between her fingers. When she reached a streetlight, she let the needles hang and fished scissors from her pocket. As she stretched the yarn to cut it, a man broke through the hedge of a nearby yard and dashed across the street in front of her. The buttons on his jacket flashed in the light. She read one—Earth is Room Enough—and then he was gone.
Snip. Indigo ceased, replaced by florescent orange. The scissors were deposited in the pocket. The clacking resumed, and so did the shuffling and jingling.
Shadows crowded the streetlight’s glow. A piece of the dark parted from the rest and blocked Urdie’s path.
“Hello, young pup,” Urdie said without looking up. “Come to try again?”
The darkness curled away like steam, unveiling the stolen human form of Fenrir. A cigarette hung from one corner of his mouth. His lip curled.
“Try is such an uncertain word.”
“And still an appropriate one, my dear. After all, you tried ten years ago.” Urdie stopped walking, but her hands continued to work. She ran her fingers down the orange yarn and wrapped a loop around a needle. “Try, try again, but you still won’t be able to kill fate.”
Fenrir growled and his eyes flared yellow. Once before, he had come upon Urdie on a similar dark street, intending to tear her apart. One-Eye’s champion of the moment had intervened, setting Fenrir’s plans back another ten years. That interfering human now served Fenrir in torment, a hollow shell filled with terror, subject to Fenrir’s smallest whims.
“There will be no try this time, old woman.”
Fenrir’s voice rang with triumph. Urdie looked up for the first time and saw the seven-foot spear in Fenrir’s hands. She stopped knitting. Her oversized purse slipped off her arm and hit the ground with a chink.
“So,” she whispered, a hint of a smile at the corners of her mouth. “You brought Gungnir.”
Primitive and rough-hewn, the spear spoke of raw power. Hand-carved runes tracked down its shaft. Black feathers dangled from the leather straps behind the knife-sharp bronze head. Fenrir hefted it in one hand.
“I thought that would get your attention. You should never have given One-Eye that prophecy.”
He brought the spear to his shoulder, ready to throw. Urdie tucked her needles into her knitting and folded her hands. “You were in the ground too long, young pup,” she said, “or you would know this will never work.”
“Oh, but I think it will.” He stretched his empty hand toward her, a javelin thrower’s pose. One by one, he curled his fingers into a fist, each knuckle popping like distant gunshot. Then he threw.
The spear plunged into Urdie’s chest, shredding layers of flower print like tissue. The force knocked her out of her heavy boots and sent the flowered hat spinning from her head. She hit the pavement with a dull thud and lay still.
